


Nuit du Loup

by GreenWaters



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, And one relentless adversary, Aramis Whump, Athos Whump, Banter, D'Artagnan POV, Dark Magic, Deception, Fanart Included, Fear, Friendship, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Memories, Other, POV Athos, Present Tense, Supernatural Elements, Thriller, Trust, Violence, d'Artagnan Whump, literal cliffhanger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 10:43:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7358026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenWaters/pseuds/GreenWaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four Musketeers, abbey ruins in the mist, and an ill-advised shortcut...</p><p>
  <i>Aramis thumps his fist on the table, wincing. “You are both fools,” he says, gaze travelling worriedly from Athos’ knee to Porthos’ bandaged arm, “and should your neglect result in infection, you will deserve it.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all,  
> I'm back with a new story - this time trying something new and playing a little with supernatural/horror themes. Warning for some grisly images and violence/hurt.  
> Athos and D'Artagnan play a slightly larger role, but it's a four hander most of the story, with the adversary when he?she makes an appearance.  
> The_Ghoul has also created some wonderful artwork for the story for you to enjoy ^_^  
> Happy reading :)

  
[The Abbey in the Oakwood - Friedrich (public domain)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Abbey_in_the_Oakwood)

  


_No wonder therefore 'tis, if over-power'd,_  
_So many of them has the Wolf devour'd.*_  
~Histoires et contes du temps passé, avec des moralités - Perrault~ 

Black posts loom up out of the mist, indistinct, but the only feature in that silent landscape.

D’Artagnan’s slim hand reaches out. “This is hopeless. I can barely see two feet ahead.”

“Damn it all, Athos.” A sodden splash and Porthos’ orphaned voice from the darkness.

According to locals, the tavern was only a few leagues away on the winding east road. Long and tedious days were behind them - weeks away from the comforts of home - and so it was that cold and bone-tired, Athos had opted for a shortcut.

Now, squinting against the blinding mist, he attempts to make out the structure ahead. The sparse posts reach skyward, a tall crossbeam nearly hidden - perhaps the entrance to a stable - but a far cry from the homely inn which they seek.

“Admit it,” Aramis says with cheery superiority. “We’re lost. We should have taken the road. The tavern will have shut its doors by now. We may as well make the best of it and bunk down until the mist clears.”

“You promised,” Porthos grunts, his boot eliciting an obscene squelch as he battles the marshy ground. “The best ale within a hundred leagues of Paris, I was told. Little help?”

Athos stands back while D’Artagnan goes to Porthos’ aid. “I will admit that the long way around may have been more prudent - but I made no such promise. And although it may surprise you to hear it,” he adds scornfully, “Old Maurus has no taste in ale.”

“Maurus hasn’t been able to taste anything since he had his teeth pulled years back,” Aramis chimes in.

D’Artagnan agrees breathlessly, finally succeeding in freeing Porthos’ leg. “He’s right you know, Porthos. I saw him chewing on raw garlic the other morning.”

“Medicinal perhaps.” Aramis grins. “Or a talisman against admirers.”

A strategy you might consider employing yourself,” Athos suggests flatly, Aramis’ cheery tone grating on his nerves. “Very well. The structure ahead may not be the tavern, but it may provide a little shelter.”

“Structure?”

He raises an eyebrow to suggest the boy pay more attention to his surroundings, but the black posts are no longer visible. The whiteness swirls, chill fingers against his neck. Disoriented, he turns, pulling his scarf more tightly about his throat. “-The mist - it must have closed in.”

“Just our luck,” D’Artagnan sighs. “I’ll go ahead -.”

“Stay,” Athos says without explanation. “Keep together.”

* * *

They move on slowly, taking turns to pull each other free as the mud sucks at their limbs, drawing them down, sapping their strength. No stranger to the effects of exhaustion and hunger, Athos does not voice his unease when the posts fails to appear, only a widening expanse of marshland stretching on ahead.

The rain picks up, a constant trickle that seeps down the backs of their collars and into their boots.

At first he thinks he is imagining the sounds, the splashing of their boots and Porthos’ grumbles disguising any other noise, but after several moments Athos puts out a hand to block D’Artagnan’s progress. Porthos and Aramis come to a halt behind, and they all listen as one.

It is unmistakable. 

“Wolves.” Even through the cursed mist Athos can make out the sudden mark of terror on Porthos’ face. “Athos, it’s wolves.” 

They all strain their ears once more to catch the distant sounds, and when the howls begin again, they are nearer.

“I don’t hear anything.” D’Artagnan tips his head, birdlike, towards Porthos. His forehead creases in concentration. “Except the wind perhaps -”

“Is the city boy scared of the Big Bad Wolf?”* Aramis elbows Porthos good naturedly.

“Athos?” Porthos ignores the marksman’s ribbing. “You can hear it?”

Athos hesitates, considering. He knows of Porthos’ aversion, a rabid dog having come upon them once in an alley, teeth bared and hackles raised. His stolid friend had shrunk away, incapacitated.

“I hear something - but I am not certain...” he says slowly in a diplomatic attempt to both lend his support and avoid confirmation of the man's fears.

“There it is again,” Porthos moans, gritted teeth shining in the dark, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. 

Athos has never encountered wolves in the wild, save for an injured animal as a boy. The howling is closer now, conjuring the tearing teeth and claws. 

“You are serious?” Aramis turns Porthos by the shoulder to face him. The large musketeer’s gaze flicks away into the darkness.

“I can’t hear anything. Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m bloody sure.” Porthos raises his drawn sword and lets them see the tremor in his usually steady grip. His breath seizes and he shrinks back from Aramis’ hold. “I can’t face this-”

  
[Nuit du Loup FanArt by The_Ghoul](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7954042/)  
_click through to see larger image + leave feedback_

Athos draws his own blade, the shriek of metal breaking into their exchange. “I do not know what is out there - perhaps only hunting dogs. But there are four of us. We are armed. We will stay together and we will find shelter.”

“Here,” D’Artagnan holds out his pistol to Porthos. After weeks on the road, and on the eve of their return to Paris, their remaining ammunition is limited to two shots.

Porthos swallows at the offer, his chin set, but closes his large hand over D'Artagnan's. “You keep it. You’ve got my back.”

D’Artagnan nods, his concern for their comrade, who he has never yet seen falter, not quite assuaged.

They move more quickly now, and Athos does not miss the confused glance that passes between D’Artagnan and Aramis when they think Porthos is not looking.

They have only been moving a few minutes when D’Artagnan trips and falls, Athos' reaching hand catching at empty air. 

“Ugh.” Crawling back to all fours, D'Artagnan groans, the sound more frustration than pain. Despite protestations as to his well being, the Gascon does not rise immediately, and Aramis kneels to check for damage.

“You’re soaking wet - and bleeding.”

A dark shape at the corner of Athos’ vision hints at the silhouette of a structure, and with growing dread he begins to recognise the posts and crossbeam for what they are. 

“Careful!” D’Artagnan pulls back from Aramis’ probing fingers at his temple.

“It’s a deep cut - what did this?”

Beside Athos, Porthos fidgets.

Grateful for the distraction, Athos drops into a crouch and reaches into the dark until he feels curved stone beneath his fingers. The small headstone, now marked with D’Artagnan’s blood, is chill to the touch. 

“Graves,” Porthos intones. “We’re in a graveyard.”

“That’s good news,” Aramis says reassuringly.

“It doesn’t feel like good news.” D’Artagnan winces, one hand pressed to his forehead, as he crawls forward to examine the stone.

“There’s likely a church near by. I’ll scout ahead - see if there is some shelter where we can examine the wound in comfort. Look after D’Artagnan.”

With growing apprehension, Athos watches Aramis disappear into the mist, the man’s step light and determined. Porthos crouches down beside D’Artagnan, but his eyes wander distractedly into the dark.

As though struck by a snake, D’Artagnan recoils from the headstone he had been examining.

“Did you read this?” He scrubs a hand across his muddy face in disbelief. “Did you _read_ it?!”

Athos grabs the boy’s wrist, preventing him from frantically rubbing more foul water into his eyes. He bends low, attempting to make out the freshly carved lettering in the darkness.

_Constance Bonacieux. 1631._

  
[Nuit du Loup FanArt by The_Ghoul](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7954042/)  
_click through to see larger image + leave feedback_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * In case you’re wondering, the story of Red Riding Hood was in oral circulation at the time, but likely not in published form, and with different moral overtones
> 
> \--
> 
> Thanks for taking the time to read! 
> 
> A little departure from the usual genre, so would love to hear if you enjoyed, and if you plan to keep reading :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their stiff limbs are slow to obey as they rise, the soft creaking of their leathers filling the silence. The sound sets Athos' teeth on edge, conjuring the heavy turn of a rope in the wind - the stretch and grind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for giving this tale a very warm welcome - certainly encouraged chapter two to be published more quickly than expected.
> 
> Thanks also to Issai who highlighted that it wasn’t clear which year the story is set, which made last chapter’s ending a little ambiguous. The story is set in 1631… which hopefully fits with series cannon. 
> 
> This chapter includes beautiful fanart from The_Ghoul ^_^
> 
> Happy reading!

_Your starboard flank abeam_  
_I was getting my muskets clean_  
_When came this rumbling from beneath_  
The Mariner's Revenge Song ~ Decemberists*

 

_Constance Bonacieux. 1631._

They kneel together on the _freshly turned earth_. 

“Constance?” D’Artagnan jerks in Athos' grip, clutching at Porthos’ shoulder like a drowning man. “We’ve only been away a few weeks - what - how could she be -?”

“D’Artagnan.” Athos grasps the shuddering shoulders - waits until red eyes meet his. The boy is suffocating - his shock intimate and familiar. “This is no truth in this. Some devilry is plucking at our fears.” 

Porthos is bent over the headstone, his fingers methodically tracing its surface. “There’s nothing here,” he says. “Nothing. No letters.”

D’Artagnan throws himself forwards to feel for himself the unblemished stone. “I saw it - it was there. _You_ saw it.” A sob rises, is choked off, and he falls back, hand pressed over his face.

Crouching together by the grave with D’Artagnan’s composure returning by degrees, their silent reverie is broken by Aramis’ cry from out of the dark. A desperate sound, shock and terror mixed.

Unnerving silence descends as the sound breaks off, and Porthos is already moving. His own fear forgotten, rainwater sluices from his hat and cloak as he traverses the gravestones.

“Stay with us,” Athos attempts. “Do not go too far ahead.” But the man has closed his ears to their calls.

A wordless curse, the mist closes around his retreating back, and Athos and D’Artagnan are alone.

Their stiff limbs are slow to obey as they rise, the soft creaking of their leathers filling the silence. The sound sets Athos' teeth on edge, conjuring the heavy turn of a rope in the wind - the stretch and grind.

The rain is slowing, but their feet nevertheless catch in the marshy earth, preventing them from matching speed with their fears. Then they are staggering to a halt at the tableau that emerges from the darkness. 

Beneath the moonlit walls of a ruined abbey, mist writhing around them like ocean waves, their two friends vie for control. On his knees, Porthos' arm is banded across Aramis' chest as he drags the man bodily backwards. He shoots a glance up at their approach, nose bleeding and hands grappling for the marksman's wrists. "He can't hear me," he grits out between clenched teeth.

"Is he hurt?" D'Artagnan asks as they temper their approach, unsure how to safely intervene.

"His hands..."

Athos catches a glimpse of torn and bloody fingertips before Aramis' elbow comes up, striking Porthos across the side of the head and wringing a curse from the larger man. Aramis plunges forwards and resumes tearing at the earth beneath.

"D'Artagnan-" Athos throws himself into the fray.

Held down, Aramis panics, fighting their smothering grip. A few agonising moments pass, Porthos' strong arms incapacitating the man with reluctant force.

Beneath Athos' knees the earth seems to shift and fall away, and for a moment he catches sight of a hand, delicate and pale, and a glimpse of golden hair, before it sinks into the mire.

His own exclamation is smothered by Aramis's wordless cry. A brief slackening of his grip and Athos loses his hold, Aramis' fist glancing off his jaw. The sudden pain - compounded by anger at his own lapse - dispels the vision, and he sees clearly. The ground is solid rock, the foundations of the abbey stretching out. No sinking earth. No pale, reaching, hands.

But the illusion does not release Aramis so soon, and while the fight is going out of him, the horror in his friend's eyes cannot be endured. Athos looks away, meets Porthos’ eyes, a plea for mercy rising to his lips.

Finally, Aramis stills, gasps.

Porthos does not yet relax his grip. “I’m here. We’re all here.”

Aramis looks up at them, then quickly down at the rocky ground. “God, I thought - I saw…” The colour drains from his face before he turns aside and retches.

Porthos leaves a hand on Aramis’ back, his face pinched with concern. “We’ve all seen things, _heard_ things.”

D’Artagnan’s shakes his head, faint tear tracks smudged across his cheeks. “What devil hunts us?” 

“We should go back,” Porthos says. “Back to the road.”

* * *

The fire throws strange shadows onto the walls, and Athos’ tenuous hold on reality slips another notch. 

All attempts to find the road had ended in failure, and now they huddle in the crumbling remains of the abbey. The vaulted ceilings of the undercroft provide some small shelter against the rain, with spiral stairs twisting up into lofty archways above. They draw what little heat they can from the flames but avoid each other’s eyes, each lost in their own fears.

“It will be day soon,” Aramis says, wrapping his damaged fingers with painful slowness. “Then we will be free of it.”

Athos, sitting a little away from the other three, knows the dawn should long have come, but says nothing.

The small turn of Porthos’ head, the drum of his fingers on the stone, is worse than any tell at cards. It’s clear that wolves still plague the man’s every thought, the howls unrelenting.

"What did you see?" D'Artagnan asks, dark eyes fixed on the fire.

Aramis pauses in his wrapping, but does not shirk the question as Athos might have in his place. Instead he shrugs his collar up against the cold. "Ghosts - in the moonlight - as real as you or I. Adèle..." Aramis speaks the name of the Cardinal's mistress for the time since her death. He speaks no other name, but the omission is conspicuous. "Dressed just as they had been in life - with the same..." Aramis trails off, eyes following the sparks up from the fire.

D'Artagnan’s face creases in sympathy, his own experience still raw.

"Their hands, their touch, like truth - but then." Aramis swallows thickly, the fire throwing dark shadows beneath his eyes. "They were falling away - rotting - down into the earth. I could see the earth swallowing their -" He breaks off again, fingers twitching as though with the desire to keep digging.

  
[Nuit du Loup FanArt by The_Ghoul](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7954042/chapters/18195697)  
_click through to see larger image + leave feedback_

A log skips from the fire, sending up cracking sparks, and Athos hears again the creak of the hangman's rope. He closes his ears to it, clenches his bruised jaw until pain cuts across his other senses. He alone is forewarned that the visions are false - is gifted the clarity to face them on his own terms. And yet...

"When I saw Constance's name on that grave..." D'Artagnan begins, but finds the words too difficult. After a pause he continues, words muffled by his hand. “Do you think we’re being punished?”

Athos lifts his eyes, his pity stirred by the simple question.

Aramis leans forward in his sincerity to comfort their youngest, but Athos cannot make out the words, the torturous creak of the rope amplifying until he can hear little else. 

“Athos?” 

The sounds dips, fades again. He swallows thickly, his eyes fixed on his brothers rather than the shadows on the wall - a gibbet surely - a hanging rope - and a body... 

“Perhaps...” He licks his lips in agitation. His brothers are huddled together for warmth - fire in their frightened eyes. He cannot not ask them to extinguish the flames. But the pull of the illusion is strong - like fighting sleep whilst clinging to a raft - the dark depths welcoming - the prospect of letting go a danger and a relief in equal parts.

The rope snaps. The body falls with a sickening crunch. And he cannot remain unmoved. He stands - backs away - no longer able to convince himself of its falsity.

It has him now. He had been vain to think himself resilient.

The fallen body is a blackened thing, still for only a moment before sluggishly writhing, charred fingers moving, clawing their way like worms towards him. His heart beats in his chest. Visions. _Phantasms_ clearly. But another hand follows, and when a head emerges he turns his eyes to the wall, presses his hands over his ears. But it’s worse - not knowing where the _thing_ is.

And when he looks again it is fully formed, matted hair trailing back from a shrunken skull. The rope catches briefly, stretching the familiar neck back. Tattered black garments dragging along the earth towards him. That dress had been white once…

The fire goes out with a hiss, and a yell breaking in on his beleaguered senses. But he’s still not free of it. 

The slap to his face throws him sideways, but his arm is caught in a strong grip. He gasps and chokes, eyes still frantically searching.

“Are you back with us?” Porthos. The arm does not let him fall.

  
[Nuit du Loup FanArt by The_Ghoul](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7954042/chapters/18195697)  
_click through to see larger image + leave feedback_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * A great song, and the mention of muskets seemed appropriate ^_^
> 
> Things are heating up. Hope you enjoyed this installment :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rising from his crouch, the Gascon licks his lower lip in nervous agitation and speaks to Athos beneath his breath. “They will not wake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the short delay - hopefully this slightly longer chapter makes up for it. Thank you for the truly lovely reactions to the last chapter, both on both A03 and ffnet - they provide such great encouragement for future writing. I hope you enjoy this chapter - things are heating up!

...  
_The purity of the unclouded moon_  
_Has flung its arrow shaft upon the floor._  
_Seven centuries have passed and it is pure,_  
_The blood of innocence has left no stain..._  
~Blood and the Moon - Yeats~ 

 

Athos, leaning against the wall, rubs weary eyes as their discussion turns in circles. They are as one now, united in their fears, but while anger has taken the place of shame, they are no closer to a solution.

“But how can such a foe be fought?” With hands resting on his knees before the cold ruin of their fire, D’Artagnan looks to Aramis for answers.

Aramis throws up his hands. “Why ask me?”

“What use is all the time spent buried in scripture if-”

“Yes, Aramis,” Athos cuts in, pushing himself off the wall. “Enlighten us as to which liturgy will placate the Devil.” He directs an exasperated look at the Gascon.

D’Artagnan shakes his head and shrugs, their stagnation clearly fueling his increasingly desperate questions.

Porthos leans back from the exchange. “What if we closed our ears and eyes to it? Refused to give it any power. It has done us no real harm.”

D’Artagnan scoffs, has hand moving to the cut on his temple.

“That was your own clumsiness,” Aramis says, but without malice. While the visions had provided the impetus, in a sense the marksman’s injuries were also self inflicted.

“No _direct_ harm,” Athos agrees with Porthos’ assessment. 

“Had we the fortitude to resist the visions - to question what we see and hear...” Aramis tips his head to Porthos, and leaves the question open.

“But what good would that do?”

“Perhaps it would allow us to see a way out of this place - something we haven’t yet noticed.”

Athos has given off listening, dwelling instead on their imminent need for sustenance. The first pangs of hunger had set in, and they had seen no wildlife - no rabbits or game of any kind. Their supplies, stored at the village while they detoured in search of the Tavern, are out of reach.

* * *

By the ashes of their blackened fire, Athos watches D’Artagnan whittle away at a piece of wood with his knife, seeing the curved shape of a woman emerging slowly from the boy’s skilled fingers. No further visions had disturbed their rest, and the silence suggests a reprieve from pursuit. However the cold is all consuming, and as Athos paces slowly he admires the Gascon's fortitude in removing his gloves for the delicate task. The nervous drumming of the boy’s feet indicates a possible motivation for the sacrifice. 

"That is rather good." Athos nods towards D’Artagnan's carving.

Not looking up from his work, D'Artagnan returns a half smile. "Not just a pretty face."

Athos is heartened to see some of his friend's facetiousness returning despite the dire situation, and raises an eyebrow. "Now, if you'd put half so much trouble into maintaining your weapons. It is not all -"

"- gadding about. I know." D’Artagnan rolls his eyes. "What can I say? I learn from the best."

"You dishonor Aramis if you believe him lax in his duty," Athos replies sternly. "See how he cares for his weapons, even in sleep."

Aramis is curled on his side, one elbow beneath his head and the other cradling his arquebus. 

D’Artagnan's lips twitch. "He might have a different kind of care in mind." As if on queue, the marksman moans in his sleep, drawing the gun more snugly into his embrace. "Actually, that looks a little dangerous. Should we wake him?"

Athos shrugs. "Leave him be. He sleeps better with company."

They fall into companionable silence. Despite their situation, Athos feels that solid glow of friendship which (though he might not often show it) meant everything to him.

The moonlight streaming through the entryway is just bright enough for D’Artagnan to see his fine work. Athos has become accustomed to the shadows on the abbey walls, the patterns made by the bare trees at the entrance of the ruined undercroft, and it is a slight shift in the darkness that first reveals that they are not alone.

Deeper into the undercroft, where the vaulted ceiling has cracked and fallen in on itself, a dark shape crouches against the sunken wall.

Athos stiffens, hooded eyes peering into the shadows, doubting the veracity of the new vision. Reaching up to nonchalantly remove his hat with one hand, he discretely reaches for his sword with the other.

D’Artagnan remains unaware of the change, his eyes and hands focussed on the small wooden figurine. The Gascon’s pistol sits a foot away on the rock wall, in reach should he need it.

The shape is small, and at first Athos wonders if it is some kind of animal hiding from the cold - but then it uncoils, and he can make out the shape of a young girl. The child watches him with feet bare and arms wrapped around herself against the cold. Her hair hangs in damp curls, wide eyes gazing up at him in fear and hope. A doll is clutched in her small fingers.

“D’Artagnan,” Athos says, his low tone warning the boy to make no violent movements. He tips his chin towards the new arrival. He does not trust his eyes. How could a child be here in the dead of night?

“Please,” the girl asks in a small, frightened voice. “Are you soldiers?”

Athos and D’Artagnan share a look.

“Hello there,” D’Artagnan ventures, rising slowly. “What is your name?” 

“Luce,” the child replies, watching the Musketeers with large eyes.

“Where is your family, Luce? Why are you here all alone at night?” 

The girl shifts on the spot, her eyes flicking to the dark doorway. “I took Paul’s Captain.” She holds up the toy soldier in explanation. “-but just to play - and then the wolf came…”

D’Artagnan glances to Athos, his eyebrows raised, then takes another small step. 

Athos reaches out to grasp his arm.

“She’s just a child,” D’Artagnan hisses, “and frightened to death.”

“Our eyes have deceived us more than once -”

Luce is watching their exchange. Her lips are trembling but her eyes remain determinedly dry.

The swordsman sighs, his better judgement overruled by the child’s endearing courage. He releases his grip on the Gascon’s arm. “Just - take care.”

D’Artagnan nods, but before he can question the child further, a noise from behind demands their attention. The girl bolts, vanishing to hide in a small cavity in the wall. 

The entryway is dark, but the man who steps into their camp is unarmed. Around their own age with light hair, expensive cloak and unruffled demeanor, the stranger cuts an elegant figure.

D’Artagnan takes in the new arrival. Following Athos’ lead, he does not reach for his pistol, but grips the knife more firmly in his fist. Neither Musketeer risks a glance towards Luce’s hiding place.

“I saw the smoke from the road.” The young man’s voice is cultured and blessedly unfamiliar, bringing forth no uncomfortable memories from their pasts. “Lately children have been playing in the ruins - I thought it best to make sure...”

“You are a brave man to leave the road alone and unarmed,” Athos says before D’Artagnan can speak. “We might have been bandits.” The girl’s frightened face lingers in his mind, and until they had the measure of this man, he would not risk revealing her presence.

The Musketeer’s hand has not left his sword hilt, a fact which is not lost on the stranger. “You have encountered trouble on the road?”

“You might say that,” D’Artagnan replies, his relief in seeing another human palpable. Eyeing the stranger’s crisp collar and polished boots, gleaming dully in the moonlight, the Gascon pushes tangled hair from his own face. The Musketeers’ bedraggled state is a stark contrast to this man's gentlemanly attire, but it is so dark that it hardly matters.

“My driver is within call,” the stranger remarks in a conversational tone, clearly wishing, despite his lack of arms, to show himself protected. 

“You have transport?” D’Artagnan asks, unable to keep the hope from his voice. “We are-”

“Athos and D’Artagnan of the King’s Musketeers,” Athos intercedes. “And our companions.” He gestures to the sleeping men.

“Musketeers.” The young man runs the word over his tongue as though it tastes unfamiliar. “I am the Marquis de Coublans, on a return journey to Paris.”

“Perhaps you would be so good as to lead us back to the road?” D’Artagnan asks, now tempering his enthusiasm in line with Athos’ reserved manner.

“It would be my pleasure.”

Athos hears D’Artagnan's small sigh of relief, the man’s generosity further putting him at ease.

“D’Artagnan, wake the others.”

Perhaps Athos’ senses are simply overwraght, but his terse order seems to draw the Marquis’ scrutiny.

D’Artagnan places his knife and the figurine carefully on the wall by his pistol. _He is learning_ , Athos thinks wryly. The new Musketeer had woken Porthos with knife in hand on a previous occasion, and quickly regreted the action. 

In the uncomfortable silence, the Marquis throws a glance at their ruined fire. “You must be hardy souls indeed to endure the night air without the warmth of a fire.”

“We are used to harsh conditions,” Athos agrees, “and have slept beneath the stars on colder nights than this.”

“And your supplies are few - no horses?” The Marquis eyes their sparse of belongings: Aramis’ medical satchel, a rope, a simple cooking vessel and their water skins.

"We were not travelling far," Athos answers guardedly. In truth, Athos was grateful they had been diligent enough to carry even these few supplies, their simple detour to the tavern warranting little more than a cloak and coin purse.

“Athos,” D’Artagnan calls, his tone unreadable.

His thoughts still dwelling on the girl hidden in the abbey wall, Athos turns his back unwillingly. “Please excuse us, Monsieur.” 

Rising from his crouch, the Gascon licks his lower lip in nervous agitation and speaks to Athos beneath his breath. “They will not wake.”

The news chills like cold water, complacency having risen during their brief respite. Athos crouches down to examine their sleeping companions. Without the comfort of blankets, Aramis is curled on his side, one elbow beneath his head, and the other still cradling his arquebus. Porthos sleeps flat on his back as usual, but the heavy breathing Athos knows so well is missing. Bending over each of his friends in turn, he shakes them, drawing off a glove to place chilled fingers against their necks, sighing in relief to find them alive.

Behind Athos' back, the Marquis is addressing D’Artagnan.

“A lady friend?” 

One hand resting on the steady rise and fall of Porthos’ chest, Athos glances warily over his shoulder. The stranger has retrieved D’Artagnan’s figurine from the rock wall, and his long fingers are slowly tracing its curves.

“A likeness of my - ,” D’Artagnan hesitates, “- a lady who is special to me.” He shoots a sidelong look to Athos, silently willing his mentor to return to the conversation. 

“Your skill with a blade is evident.” The stranger nods. “And I congratulate you. What more can a man wish for but the _constancy_ of a good woman?”

“ _What_ did you say?”

“Have I misspoke?” The Marquis asks smoothly.

D’Artagnan hesitates, sceptical of his own hearing after all they had experienced, but there had been no mistaking the pronounced inflection. “Athos. He said-”

“I heard.” Athos rises cautiously to his feet, his tone unreadable.

The Marquis half smiles, and it is all D’Artagnan needs to be sure.

“You’ve done this to us,” he snarls, “trapped us here!” He dives for his gun, but his eyes betray him. Instead of the solid pistol butt, his fingers wrap about the blade of his knife. The sharpened metal slices deeply into his palm, and he gasps in alarm, still unable to see through the illusion.

Athos lunges forwards, seizing the Gascon’s wrist to carefully remove the blade. Blood is spilling down the boy’s fingertips to the stone floor.

“I saw - my -”

Pain has not yet set in, but the shock is blinding, and D'Artagnan bends over the injured limb, fingers digging into his forearm and teeth clenched as Athos tugs the scarf from his neck and begins to swiftly wrap the hand.

“What _are_ you?” Athos snarls, hurriedly pressing the yet unwrapped cloth into the Gascon’s free hand so that he might draw his own sword. 

The Marquis had made no move towards them. “I applaud your boldness in raising another weapon against me.”

“We had no quarrel with you.” Athos levels the blade. “Why have you pursued us - _hunted_ us?” Concern for D’Artagnan’s hand and fear for his comatose companions, is briefly dulled by the chance to confront a tangible adversary.

The young man smiles, watching for their reactions. “The thrill of the chase - it sweetens the _meat_.” There is something wolf-like about his features, the calculating stare, the tilt of the head.

D’Artagnan is recovering from the shock, and Athos senses the moment the pain truly registers. Still cradling the injured limb, the boy does not reach again for his pistol, and his words echo that of the lost child. “You’re a monster.”

“Perhaps - or something you do not understand. However your resilience has outstripped that of the villagers. I took seven before they became wary-”

Behind the arrogant tone, Athos detects something else. “There is more to this than a preditor hunting for food... You’re testing us - and your own limits. There are more of you?”

The Marquis disregards the accusation. “The villagers hide inside like frightened rabbits.” His sharp teeth flash, a hint of bestiality showing through. “I am lucky now if a stray child crosses my path.”

A missed heartbeat. Luce had been no illusion - but a small child, alone and frightened, running from this creature.

The horror shows briefly on D’Artagnan’s face. He hides it quickly, but too late.

“Ah.” The hunger in the Marquis’ expression grows, his lips stretching to reveal the sharp tips of his teeth. “Where is the _child_?”

“You’ll never find her, D’Artagnan snarls, anger at his own misstep clear in his voice. “And the villagers will thank us for freeing them from your plague.”

“I will make this easy.” The Marquis addresses Athos, dismissing the Gascon and his fiery threats. “Give me the child - and you and your men shall be free to leave.”

“Not a chance-” D’Artagnan spits.

“Obstruct me,” the Marquis speaks over him, “and this place will run red with your blood.”

Athos takes in a slow breath, wonders whether he is damning them all, then tilts his blade. “Yours first.”

The sudden press of steel against his neck stays his hand.

“Put it down,” Porthos’ voice growls in his ear. 

When Athos makes no move to obey, the Musketeer's hand comes up to grasp his collar, the knife coming around to press against his windpipe. “Put it down or I’ll cut your throat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks very much for reading! Most of the story is planned out, but the next chapters are not behaving quite as well as I’d like, so if you have any hopes or thoughts about the direction of this tale, or something you'd like to see happen, I would love to hear about it. There may be the possibility of incorporating it, and it could be the kick of motivation I need.
> 
> Thanks also to those who voted in the June Fete challenge - made me happy :) I've now put something in for the July challenge.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Would love to hear what you think ^_^


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Put it down,” Porthos’ voice growls in his ear. 
> 
> When Athos makes no move to obey, the Musketeer's hand grasps his collar, the knife coming around to press against his windpipe. “Put it down or I’ll cut your throat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all - thanks so much for the ongoing support for this tale - it really makes a difference to the writing experience to know people are enjoying it ^_^
> 
> Many thanks also to Mountain Cat for this chapter’s poem. Kipling wasn't covered in my studies, and I am not overly familiar with his work, but this little piece seems to fit nicely with the atmosphere that this tale hopefully creates. Unfortunately for the boys, the 'powers of darkness' encountered are of a more tangible variety than Kipling’s - particularly in this chapter.

_A stone's throw out on either hand_  
_From that well-ordered road we tread,_  
_And all the world is wild and strange;_  
_Churel and ghoul and Djinn and sprite_  
_Shall bear us company to-night,_  
_For we have reached the Oldest Land_  
_Wherein the Powers of Darkness range._  
~ Plain Tales from the Hills - Rudyard Kipling ~

 

_“Put it down,” Porthos’ voice growls in his ear._

_When Athos makes no move to obey, the Musketeer's hand grasps his collar, the knife coming around to press against his windpipe. “Put it down or I’ll cut your throat.”_

Heart hammering, Athos stares down the Marquis - the Devil watching quietly as their naive assumptions crumble. This fight would not be fought on even ground.

Aramis' urgent voice throws his thoughts into disarray. “D’Artagnan - we have you. Stay still for God’s sake. What’s he done to you?"

A sidelong glance shows the Gascon unharmed, fighting with the marksman's restraining hands. Mist is rolling through the entryway, white tendrils curling around the two Musketeers’ feet as they struggle.

“It’s only my hand.” D’Artagnan pushes at Aramis as the man attempts to haul the Gascon bodily to the ground. “Can’t you see? It’s only my hand.”

"Drop it," Porthos growls again, shaking Athos. The gravel of his voice is choked with concern, his grip tense with the desire to see to their youngest.

Athos’ confusion mounts, the cold steel preventing him from questioning Porthos' actions. Unwilling to test his friend's patience, he lets the sword slip from his fingers.

Aramis looks up from where he has successfully restrained D'Artagnan, pinning his seemingly wounded brother down while D'Artagnan fights to be free. “It’s glass - a stab wound to the chest - but there’s so much blood. Why didn't you wake us, Athos?”

But Aramis’ red-rimmed eyes are not seeking his - and are fixed instead on the Marquis.

The ugly nature of the deception now clear, he wearing the Marquis’ face, and the Marquis wearing his, Athos takes advantage of a small easing of pressure to speak his friend's name. “Aramis -”

"How do you know my name?" Aramis questions, lips parted in confusion, before Athos can explain.

“How does he realise our fears?” The Marquis counters, measured tone reminiscent of Athos’ own. “Do not underestimate him - we’ve all seen what he can do. Do not trust his words.”

Athos lets out a low noise of denial, but Porthos' rage is palpable through the body pressed against his back, and the knife edge prevents him from further refuting the accusation.

Aramis nods, brow remaining creased, but his concern for D’Artagnan overriding all else. He swats at the smothering mist that is obscuring his sight. “What did this?”

“If he dies…”

“I’m not dying,” D’Artagnan gasps, succeeding in briefly fighting off Aramis’ hold. “Aramis leave me be. You’re bewitched. That’s not Athos.” He flails an arm at the Marquis. “Athos is here.”

The Marquis easily dismisses the words, “He’s losing blood - he’s delirious.”

The amusement behind the stranger's voice boils Athos' blood. He damns the consequences, and takes advantage of his friend’s concern for D’Artagnan by grasping Porthos' wrist.

Porthos starts in surprise, redoubling his grip on the knife, but too late. Athos forcefully turns the blade, all too aware of the risk to his vulnerable throat, and then he is free, lunging forwards to collect his sword.

The Marquis reels back, and Athos briefly revels in the creature's fear. His aim is true, but moonlight touches the steel on its path to the stranger’s throat, lending doubt to the motion. Yet Athos feels the familiar resistance - sword slicing into flesh - and the Marquis staggers under the impact. The creature _can_ be wounded.

Then Porthos is crashing into him from behind, and Athos' knees are hitting stone as they fall together. His outstretched arm, with its tenuous hold on his sword hilt, is more hindrance than help. An intimate understanding of Porthos’ prowess in unarmed combat fuels his fervent struggles. His friend is unmatched in the ranks, and the Inseparables have long since learnt to decorously avoid the challenge.

The blow to the side of his head comes as a surprise, and Porthos is all at once unshakeable, a knee pressing Athos painfully to the ground as his powder flask cuts into his hip.

"Do you have him?"

"I have him," Porthos confirms, struggling to pin Athos' arms but steadily gaining control.

Athos curses his own foolishness. How must his desperate bid for freedom appear in the eyes of his deceived friends? The low lying mist washes over them both, a white wave that chills the skin and stings the eyes.

The Marquis' footsteps scrape on the stone.

Athos cranes his neck, but cannot see.

Then his wrist spasms under the sudden crushing weight of a boot, the sword hilt is pried from his grasp, and the prick of a blade at the back of his neck stills further struggles. Porthos finally gains control of his arms, pinning them behind him and dashing any hope of escape.

"Thank you - my friend," the Marquis says as Porthos binds Athos’ wrists with a swiftly severed length of their rope. The hesitation and omission of Porthos’ name registers with Athos, but the indignity of a cloth being thrust between his teeth eclipses all else.

Finally he slumps, admitting temporary defeat and breathing with difficulty through his nose. He would like to think his pride has taken enough of a battering over the last years to stand any trial, but the indignity of the situation, and his friends’ unwitting compliance, is galling.

"He got away from me,” Porthos grunts. “Your shoulder?"

"The wound is not deep," the Marquis replies, a bitter edge to the words. "But perhaps we should take _precautions_..."

D'Artagnan's panicked shout heralds the sudden pressure that pins Athos’ outstretched leg to the ground. The sensation only clarifies into pain as the Marquis withdraws, the slick sword tip sliding free to leave Athos gasping in its wake. If he had doubted the truth of their situation, the cold bite of the blade has dispelled all suspicion.

"Athos?" Porthos’ shock at the sudden act of vengeance ripples through the man’s frame. The large hand around Athos’ wrists loosens ever so slightly, but the swordsman cannot take advantage of it - crippled by a fresh wave of pain.

Then the smothering hold suddenly lifts, and Athos is being pulled upright by his trapped arms. Testing a little weight on his injured leg has the swordsman sinking into Porthos' hold, and despite his friend's current hostility Athos welcomes the support.

Nausea quickly taking hold, he seeks at once for D’Artagnan, finding the Gascon still pinned beneath Aramis. The marksman has straddled his legs and is carefully working at something Athos cannot see. D'Artagnan's eyes seem drowsy, his struggles subdued.

“Athos?” Porthos asks again.

Cracks are appearing in the Marquis’ composure, hair falling before his eyes and stance listing towards his injured shoulder. Athos is darkly satisfied to see it, but the satisfaction is quickly quelled by the Marquis taking up the remaining length of rope.

Sharp teeth briefly bared, the stranger twists the rope expertly in his fingers, winding and pulling it into the familiar hangman’s knot.

The sick weight in Athos' stomach grows, and he tears his eyes away. Hand on D’Artagnan’s shoulder, Aramis eyes are narrowed in confusion, fixed on the knot forming in the Marquis’s hands. “Athos, talk to us - what are you doing?”

And then with decisive speed, the Marquis is looping the knot over Athos head, pulling it tight - the rope lightweight but strong enough to do the job.

D’Artagnan has stilled, eyes wide in sudden horror. “Do you really think,” he says, fighting against the slurring of his speech, “that Athos - _Athos_ \- would _hang_ a man without question?”

Porthos reaches out a hand to still the Marquis’ movements. But the Marquis shrugs off Porthos’ resistance, tossing the end of the rope over a rotting beam and turning to confront the Musketeer. “Are you questioning me?”

Porthos bristles with surprise, the Marquis’ imperious tone evoking that superiority which Athos himself studiously avoids.

“What are you doing?” Porthos asks with calculated belligerence as the Marquis ties off the rope. “Don’t we need him alive to get us out of here?”

“My friend,” the Marquis says, moderating his words with quiet reassurance. “It’s just a precaution. You’ve interrogated men - put the fear of God into them to get your answers. This is nothing more.”

Athos bites down on the cloth, willing Porthos to _see_. The damage done by the narrow blade is untold - the fiery throbbing - the warm flow seeping into his boot - would he know if an artery had been pierced? And if he should he falter with the rope around his throat - he would hang.

“You don’t need to prove your love for the boy like this,” Porthos says in a softened tone. “Trust Aramis. He’s done miracles before.”

The Marquis nods, his eyes shining with interest at Porthos’ sincerity. “Trust me, and help Aramis - a moment and I will join you.”

Porthos presses his lips together - but surrenders Athos into the Marquis’ hold. Athos slips a little at the lack of support, but manages to keep his feet as Porthos moves over to kneel by Aramis’ side.

“I’m growing hungry,” the Marquis breaths once Porthos is clear. “Will you reconsider?”

Athos exhales hotly through his nose, but gives no further response until the creature grips his jaw and slides a cold finger against his skin to clear the gag from his mouth.

“Parlour tricks,” he grates through parched lips. “You have no true hold over them.” It wasn’t strictly true. His friends had slept without waking, and he himself had felt soft earth posing as stone beneath his knees. Perhaps even now Aramis feels the warm rush of D’Artagnan’s blood on his hands. But nonetheless there were limits to the creature’s control.

“What is power but to turn another to your will?”

“Your influence is transitory - your control short-lived.”

“Time is of no consequence. How swiftly could I tip a nation into war? A few minor incursions? a personal slight?”

There was truth in that. What havock could such influence wreak in Paris? But if the creature had such reach, such ambition, why content itself with simply slaking its thirst here in this remote village?

The Marquis waits for his response, cold fingers digging into his cheek. “And how long would it take for your surgeon to slice into the boy's chest? And when medicine fails, to bury him alive. They will not hear the screams, but you will.”

Athos swallows, his dry tongue forming words with difficulty. “For their lives," he breaths, the indelible rope providing no other course. "What price?”

“The child or your men. That is the only choice.”

“The child may be a vision of your making - ”

“She may.”

Athos shifts his eyes, finding D’Artagnan’s amid the chaos that surrounded them. Eyelids heavy, his friend seems to understand what is being asked, and shakes his head.

Athos says nothing, unwilling to commit to their damnation to words.

The Marquis releases his hold. Athos’ leg buckles, but he remains upright - fear lending strength while the taut pull of the rope threatens to break his fall. He knows not if his catching breath is relief or fear for what is come, but Aramis looks up at the sound.

Porthos is assisting Aramis in removing the bulky bandages from the marksman’s right hand so that he might regain his dexterity. Forehead shining with sweat despite the cold, the marksman draws the Marquis into their plight. “The bleeding is slowing, but there are shards of glass caught in the wound.”

D’Artagnan’s nostrils flare at the words, hot breath streaming into the cold air as he struggles to keep his eyes open. “Aramis -”

The Marquis kneels down and grasps D’Artagnan’s jaw in turn, stilling further speech with what might have looked like affection. “Hold still, my friend. It will soon be over.” He looks to Athos, eyes questioning whether the Musketeer is still obstinate in his refusal to give away the child.

D’Artagnan takes the opportunity to spit at the Marquis’ face, and the creature relinquishes his hold.

“Athos -” Aramis says with reassurance. “Do not take it to heart. He’s lost so much blood and knows not what he does.”

“The hell I don’t,” D’Artagnan slurs, writhing weakly away from Aramis’ reassuring hand.

The Marquis looks primed to strike D’Artagnan for the insult, but instead turns to Aramis. “Perhaps you should take my knife,” he offers with cold intent. “It has been sharpened recently.”

“I have my surgical knife,” Aramis replies after a confused pause, his movements stilling to look up at the Marquis.

 _They see through you_ , Athos thinks with silent fervour, again willing his friends to see the truth, but the Marquis removes himself from Aramis’ side, blocking Athos’ view just as D’Artagnan cries out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra thanks to those who included ideas with your comments on the last chapter - it was great to hear which are your favourite characters, and what you'd like to see happen. If you have any additional thoughts, I'd love to hear them.
> 
> I was having a little writing slump and re-read all your lovely comments for this tale, which helped complete this chapter. Thanks again for the support ^_^


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His fingers strike something cold - the barrel of Aramis’ arquebus. He grasps it like a lifeline, drawing it slowly towards him.
> 
> “Athos." Porthos reaches out. "What’s my name?”
> 
> The mist swirls, waiting for an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all,  
> Once again I am indebted to your kind support for this tale. Thank you to those who left comments and kudos (including guests to whom I could not reply).  
> I loved hearing how you were finding the tale scary, and avoiding reading at night ;)
> 
> Enjoy :)

_“It was hope that prompted the nerve to quiver -- the frame to shrink. It was hope -- the hope that triumphs on the rack -- that whispers to the death-condemned even in the dungeons of the Inquisition.”_  
~ The Pit and the Pendulum - Edgar Allan Poe ~

  


“D’Artagnan - just a little longer - just-”

D’Artagnan’s eyes crack open as a vicious blaze of pain assaults his senses. His vision swims as he fights the rising bile, frightened at what it might mean to retch now. The taste of blood is alarming until his parched tongue locates a bitten lip.

The heady scent of alcohol follows, leaving relief in its wake. He has had enough wounds flushed to recognise the sensation - to ride through it with gritted teeth. Were he on death's door, his friends would not be wasting time in cleaning wounds.

D’Artagnan opens his eyes fully as Porthos’ gloved hand falls on his cheek, a comforting caress. He searches through the mist - hunts for the demon - the thing with the wolf’s eyes and teeth that had turned their friends to this delusion.

But with a nauseous jolt his gaze falls on Athos - still teetering on the edge of death. Beneath his feet the step is narrow, the rope above slanting outward. His friend's pale face is tipped back, searching the stone above, the rope, for any weakness, while he twists his wrists to be free.

D'Artagnan's helplessness comes crashing back - the humiliation as this man makes his friends unwittingly perform for his amusement. And his shifting gaze finds the Marquis at last, watching with silent elation as D’Artagnan bleeds.

“That’s it,” Aramis says with a feverish laugh of disbelief. “That’s all of it…”

“He will live? Are you are certain?” There is a force of will behind the question, and D'Artagnan steels himself.

But seemingly unaffected, Aramis nods with a tired smile. "It looked bad - but only two incisions were needed. The largest shard stayed in tact, thank God."

“He has the luck of the devil.”

Porthos frowns at the expression, rising to the Marquis’ height now that D’Artagnan is no longer in peril. “We need to talk."

“True, my friend. It is time to bring this to an end." The Marquis takes a deliberate step in Athos’ direction.

“D’Artagnan will be well," Aramis says quickly, lips pressed together in a thin line. “It was a close thing, but he will be well.”

“This thing cut your brother to ribbons,” the Marquis says slowly. “Do you not wish to see him punished?”

“ _Your_ brother?” Porthos repeats, voice low.

“They suspect you,” D’Artagnan’s words slur, his tongue thick and impeding his words. “You’ve lost control.”

Aramis lays a reassuring hand on his shoulder, pressing him gently but firmly back down. But D’Artagnan’s strength is returning. While the marksman's eyes return to the Marquis, D'Artagnan quests for anything within reach. His fingers strike something cold, the barrel of Aramis’ arquebus. He grasps it like a lifeline, drawing it slowly towards him.

“Athos." Porthos reaches out to halt the Marquis' progress. "What’s my name?”

The mist swirls, waiting for an answer.

D’Artagnan rights the heavy weapon with difficulty, its weight almost undoing his remaining strength. Straining to hold his head off the ground, he aims shakily over Aramis’ shoulder, the marksman unwittingly hiding his moments from view, and prays his friend makes no movement.

The Marquis lets out a sigh of mock disappointment. Shrugging off Porthos' hold, he draws D'Artagnan's pistol from the folds of his cloak. “It would have been enjoyable to see you take each other apart.”

Unable to see the whole truth, but with instinct enough to sense danger, Porthos throws himself aside as the Marquis fires at close range.

Before D'Artagnan can determine Porthos’ safety, the Marquis has swept Athos' feet from the step and his friend is jerking as the rope catches tight.

D'Artagnan wavers for just a moment, barrel shifting from the taut rope to settle on the creature’s casually retreating back. Then the violent recoil kicks the weapon painfully into his shoulder.

Aramis pitches to the side at the report of the firearm so close to his ear, hiding the staggering Marquis from view as the smoke plumes around them. Feverish to rescue Athos, D'Artagnan fears Aramis cannot hear his shouted words, but the marksman is moving, bewildered and off kilter, but moving.

He grasps Athos by the knees, taking his weight. "Porthos!"

In response to his friend’s call Porthos clambers to his feet, severing the rope, and they sink to the ground together.

Athos' smothered coughs fill the air between them as Aramis edges the rope from his throat and the offending cloth from his mouth.

D’Artagnan, on his hands and knees, searches vainly for the Marquis. Only the dark blood on the stones marks where the creature had stood.

Aramis takes a steadying breath. "Porthos - where -?"

"My arm - but only grazed -"

"D'Artagnan?"

His head is clearing, his heartbeat slowing. "Here," he says, still failing to rise from his hands and knees, but content to hear his own voice clear and strong once more. “I’m well,” he says again when it’s clear his reply is falling on deafened ears.

Then all at once Porthos' is lifting his limp form, and he is collapsing against the stone wall beside Athos - Porthos sinking down beside them.

D'Artagnan brings his pounding head to his knees for a long moment as his heartbeat subsides, faintly sick in the aftermath of fear. He unfolds his legs only to be enveloped again in Athos’ tight embrace. Beneath the strong hold D'Artagnan can feel his friend shaking. The closeness - the smell of leather - the sound of other man’s breath - unasked for but more than welcome.

“Let me see,” Athos says, voice rough. He pushes aside the Gascon’s jacket collar to see the damage, peeling back the makeshift dressing.

D’Artagnan’s discomfort had increased as the fear ebbed, and he looks down also, afraid to see the damage. Two parallel incisions sliced down from near D’Artagnan’s shoulder. The wounds are clean and less garish than he had feared.

“Clean cuts.” Athos lets the collar fall back into place. “Far less damage, I suspect, than was intended.”

D’Artagnan can feel Aramis’ eyes on him, but delays the encounter, afraid of what he might see. By the time he steels himself, Aramis has turned aside, beginning to unlace Athos' boot with jerky motions.

Athos reaches out a hand, stilling the marksman's movements. "A moment’s delay will make no difference."

Aramis falls back into his heels with a sigh, reluctantly meeting D’Artagnan’s gaze. "It does not seem enough to ask forgiveness."

Athos leaves his hand on Aramis’ arm. "We all acted in good faith - that is all that matters."

Together they listen to the wind - the branches clawing at the abbey walls.

“You shouldn’t forgive so soon.” Porthos' hands are clenched, his expression closed. “I should’ve seen sooner. That wasn’t you.”

Athos shifts against his side, expression darkening. D’Artagnan has no doubt that his friend is speculating on whether or not the actions had indeed been uncharacteristic.

Aramis runs a hand through his hair, then resumes his work to remove Athos’ boot. “All the time D’Artagnan was telling us the truth - but we could not see it.”

“You did see it,” D’Artagnan protests over the pounding in his head. “Not all of it, perhaps, but he meant for us to die. Something stayed your hand.”

Aramis flinches at the mention of death, but D’Artagnan’s reassurance appears to bring his friend a measure of solace. “It took the shot to see truly. The sudden pain of it - everything became clear - my ears are still ringing.”

D’Artagnan presses his lips together in sympathy, hoping his friend regains full use of his hearing before too long. “Porthos saw it too - stopped him, before it was too late.”

“Not before he put a hole in my arm,” the large Musketeer grunts darkly, probing at the torn leather of his jacket with a screwed up expression.

“Leave it,” Aramis warns, watching Porthos’ movements out of the corner of his eye. “You’ll... Porthos,” he groans, seeing how the wrappings have shifted.

“Let me,” D’Artagnan says, batting away Porthos’ hand.

Porthos groans, leaning back against the wall. “He never said my name. But it took me so long to see.”

Aramis raises his eyes skyward in remembrance. “We had never spoken your name out loud - not while in this place.”

“Not all seeing then.”

“Far from it-” Athos breaks off as Aramis succeeds in tugging the boot from his leg.

“I’m sorry my friend, you might need to -”

Aramis grasps Athos’ arm to help the man roll onto his front, arms braced beneath his chin.

“At this rate,” Aramis murmurs, slicing into the hem of his own shirt to create another makeshift bandage, “we’ll be traipsing around in our underclothes."

The puncture in Athos’ leg has all but closed over, an angry red smear showing the point of entry.

“He will be back,” Athos’ muffled voice returns.

A cold wave of dread washes over D'Artagnan at the words. He rubs his hand against his face as if to wipe away the memory of the creature’s sharp fingers gripping his jaw.

"What can you tell us of the creature?" Aramis asks.

“He's the Marquis de Coublans, or so he claimed.”

“And now he’s wounded,” Porthos says. “Shoulder and side. Enough to crawl off and die somewhere?”

“Not a chance,” Athos says with bitterness. “But it is enough to know that he bleeds.”

“I do not understand it. Why show himself? There are a hundred deceptions he could have played. "

“It’s a game. A hunt. He was testing his skills against us, perhaps looking to expand his hunting grounds.”

“And we were not the main prize.” D’Artagnan speaks hesitantly, even now aware that they might be watched.

“Perhaps it’s better to keep your secret,” Aramis suggests with barely hidden self reproach.

A movement catches D’Artagnan’s eye, and quickly clarifies into a small moonlike face peering out of the dark. “Too late for that.”

* * *

“No,” Athos replies flatly. “We are stronger together.”

“And that worked so well last time.” D’Artagnan has no wish to separate, but the hunger and the waiting is wearing away at his nerves. If they are to face this thing once more, let it be on their own terms

“It’s our best chance. _Her_ best chance.” Porthos’ eyes flick meaningfully to the child.

Luce, now seated in their circle, is listening quietly. It had taken some time to coax the child fully from her hiding place. D’Artagnan remains unsure that drawing her from the safety of her refuge was advisable, but the child had been frozen to the bones, and pale with fear.

Now, wide eyes and curls peek out from Aramis’ borrowed cloak, and the colour is slowly returning to her cheeks. “Mon papa says hunting is all waiting and watching.” Luce recounts the words as one might repeat a lesson.

“Your papa is a wise man,” Aramis agrees sincerely. Seeing the way her eyes follow the feather on his hat, he passes it over for her to hold. “There now - you’re a Musketeer!”

D’Artagnan smiles, the child’s innocence a welcome distraction from their plight.

“We separate,” Athos continues gravely, “and we have no way of determining truth from lies.”

“He is wounded, weakened.”

“As are we.”

Porthos grunts and looks away, the irritability of hunger and pain shortening his temper.

Athos watches him for a moment, and sighs. “What do you propose?”

“You and I take Luce and barricade ourselves in the abbey - somewhere defensible. The others draw the creature away - hunt it down.”

“We’re out of shot,” Aramis remarks.

“We have our swords - our knives,” D’Artagnan says, the thought of action appealing, his legs cold and aching to move. “And the night is not so dark as it was.”

He was not the only one to have noticed it. The black of the sky had lifted, leaving a sickly twilight in its wake. D’Artagnan took it as a sign that the Marquis’ influence over them was weakening.

“The Marquis is no fool, and there is no telling his next play." The twist of Athos’ lips is bitter, clearly resenting his inability to put weight on his leg and join the hunt. "I do not wish to separate, but neither do I wish to die of thirst."

The reminder is unwelcome, drawing D’Artagnan's attention to his own dry mouth and growling belly. He swallows thickly.

Porthos tips his head towards Luce, frowning at Athos’ choice of words. His initial surprise at finding a child in their midst had quickly melded into a fierce protectiveness, and for him remaining behind meant ensuring her safety.

“Aramis?” Luce holds out the hat in both hands.

The marksman gallantly bends his head to allow the child to replace the hat upon his head.

Noticing the child’s somewhat lost expression, D’Artagnan slips a hand into his pocket and holds out his roughly hewn figurine. “Perhaps you would like to look after her for me?”

Luce hesitates before reaching out to take the likeness of Constance from his hand. “She’s very pretty.”

D’Artagnan nods sadly, Constance seeming so very far from this waking nightmare.

“Ready to bring this wolf to heel?” The light of battle is in Aramis' eyes - a willingness to confront something tangible after so long in the dark.

But Aramis has not truly _seen_ the creature - has not looked into its eyes. D’Artagnan nevertheless squares his shoulders. The uncomfortable pull of his wound is ever present, but the bandages hold firm. He nods.

“A sign,” Athos says as the two Musketeers reach for their weapons. “A sign to know each other.”

“The Musketeers’ oath?” Aramis suggests.

“Do not speak it until the need arises,” Athos warns lest Aramis continue. “The night is listening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra thanks to those who included ideas with your comments over the last chapters - it was great to hear which are your favourite characters, and what you'd like to see happen. If you have any additional thoughts, it would be wonderful to hear them.
> 
> Thank you for reading along, I'd love to hear if you enjoyed this latest installment :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time it is Aramis who advises caution, one hand propped on the wall. "Follow, but stay back."
> 
> "How do we take him down?" D'Artagnan asks beneath his breath.
> 
> Aramis snuffs out the feeble rushlight as though wringing its neck. "Any way we can."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, lots of notes today:
> 
> Four lovely fanart images have been created by The_Ghoul, which have now been integrated with [chapter 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7358026/chapters/16712776) \+ [chapter 2](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7358026/chapters/16870816). If you enjoy the artwork, it would be lovely to leave some [kudos/feedback for The_Ghoul](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7954042/chapters/18190621). It's very exciting to have these included!
> 
> If you're looking for a bit of whimsy after this slightly gory chapter, you might enjoy my Fete challenge entry for this month: [When a man needs his hat](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8049190), in which Porthos loses his hat, and D'Artagnan's lack of a hat is explained.
> 
> Onward!

Aramis knocks again, solemn echos sounding behind the boards. Upon trying the doorknob the yellowing metal shrieks beneath his fingers. D’Artagnan glances warily over his shoulder, gritting his teeth against the sound. Behind them, the dark windows of the other houses are silently watching.

Aramis has one foot through the dark doorway before D'Artagnan grasps him by the elbow.

The marksman turns back with feverish impatience. "He must be here. The footsteps - the mist -"

They had followed the Marquis’ trail from the abbey, first the blood, and when that failed, the deep boot prints in the marshy ground. But it was too easy. After the Musketeers’ previous failure to find their way back to the road, again and again returning unwillingly to the ruined abbey, D’Artagnan could not believe in this successful pursuit.

But the landscape had narrowed to a steep incline, unfamiliar trees curving over their path on either side so that Aramis must remove his hat. And then they had come upon the town. No more than a small group of ramshackle houses, but the first dwellings they had seen in that long, long night.

Now, D’Artagnan eyes the low slung roof of the shack with uneasy reluctance. "Our swords will be no use beneath that roof."

With a grim smile, Aramis tilts his drawn knife so that it catches the moonlight.

D'Artagnan sighs deeply, sheathing his sword. "Lead on, then."

The stale air rushes forth with the chill of an underground fissure. D’Artagnan curls his injured hand inside his sleeve, seeking a little reprieve from the sharp prickling sensation of the night air.

Searching the dark hall for a source of light, Aramis stumbles into a low lying table and they both flinch at the resulting calamity.

"Your balance back to normal, then?" D'Artagnan asks with a nervous laugh as his heartbeat slows.

Aramis grimaces as he fumbles with the tinderbox he had conveniently overturned. "Like the bow of a ship... in the midst of a storm."

Long tense moments pass before Aramis huffs in frustration and pushes the box across to D’Artagnan. The brewing pit of guilt in D'Artagnan's stomach intensifies as he takes over the task. What if his friend never regains his equilibrium? Even with his own more steady hand, the minutes drag before the rushlight flares, spilling shadows over their pale faces.

Aramis takes up the lamp stand and peers into D’Artagnan’s frowning face, blinding him temporarily. “I can hear you thinking.”

D'Artagnan shakes his head. "Taking a shot at the creature - it was a foolish attempt - and both you and Athos suffered for it."

"You had a chance and you took it," Aramis says, not unkindly, but with a finality that tells D’Artagnan to drop the matter for now. “There will be time enough for regrets should we live through this.” The bitterness in Aramis’ tone speaks of his own remorse.

The lamp casts D'Artagnan's shadow in ghoulish waves on the sloping walls of the passage as he leads the way. They pass a side chamber, the Gascon sidling up to the entrance with caution before declaring it clear.

“Perhaps we could bring the others here,” he says, eyeing the disused fireplace with longing. “Build a fire.”

“He’d see the smoke,” Aramis says, but then tips his head to the side in consideration. “Perhaps that’s not a bad idea - lay a trap.”

They move along the corridor, the floorboards groaning under their weight. Somewhere in the dark expanse ahead a fluttering noise begins, making D’Artagnan’s knife hand twitch.

Having grown accustomed to the sights and sounds of Paris, D’Artagnan shrinks at the silence of the old house - feeling some creeping horror waiting for them around the next corner.

The hall opens out, the corridor walls fading into the dark - and it’s then that they notice smell. It is inoffensive at first, with no more potency than the miasma of Paris’ back streets. But as they move into the room, and Aramis’ lamp glances of pots and pans hanging from the walls, it intensifies.

Aramis seems less perturbed, though his shorter breaths reveal that he has noticed it too.

“Water?" he murmurs, his lamplight falling on a bucket near the sideboard.

"Is it drinkable?" D'Artagnan's swallows eagerly at the thought, and lowers his unbandaged hand hesitantly into the bucket. The water is chill, but when he brings it to his lips, it smells and tastes fresh enough.

They drink with caution, leaving half of what remains. Even the small amount of liquid satisfies D'Artagnan's stomach for a time, assuaging some of the emptiness of the last hours.

“D'Artagnan,” Aramis says softly, eyes straying down beyond the Gascon's feet.

D'Artagnan turns warily.

The body is face down, spread eagle across the floorboards. D’Artagnan realises with a jolt that he has stepped right over it. An old man, grizzled grey hair, and one leg missing below the knee, the severing jagged. A butcher’s knife is gripped between pale fingers, and the blood staining the blade mirrors another deep gash in the man’s thigh.

“Not long dead,” Aramis says, crouching down beside the body and steadying himself with a hand on the floorboards. “A day at most - though in this cold - it is difficult to say.”

D'Artagnan forces himself to crouch by Aramis as the other man sweeps the torch over the body.

“Don’t,” D’Artagnan says suddenly into the quiet, as Aramis moves to roll the body on to its back.

Aramis gives him a look. “Courage, my friend. This means the Marquis has been here. We need to know what we are facing.”

As the fluttering in the roof begins again, they maneuver the body together. The limbs are cold beneath their hands, but give with a disconcerting sponginess.

D’Artagnan starts back as the man’s head lolls sideways - the throat has been torn out, a dark crimson stain on the floorboards beneath. Not taking his eyes from the horrific sight, he presses one hand to his own chest - his sudden movement having pulled at the stitches.

Then the dead man’s eyes spring open.

Aramis cries out in shock, the lamp slipping from his grasp. Terror grips D’Artagnan as they are swallowed by complete darkness. He should move back away from the thing, but his knees do not obey. The smell is suddenly suffocating, and bile rises in his mouth as a dragging noise sounds close by.

And then as suddenly as it was extinguished, light is flaring once again.

“Forgive me,” Aramis says, blowing softly on the lamp with his hand cupped to nurse the small spark back into life. “I thought I saw…”

“I saw it too,” D’Artagnan says swiftly, gaze returning to the unmoving body and its eyes which are once again peacefully closed.

“He _is_ here,” Aramis says, and this time D’Artagnan does not doubt it.

A door creaks in a far corner of the house, and a familiar voice calls, “Come out and play, Musketeers.”

* * *

 _He_ is leaning in the doorway, blocking their exit. With his cloak hanging at a rakish angle, the Marquis’ light hair catches the moonlight. D'Artagnan narrows his eyes upon identifying Athos' sword at his hip.

"Do come in," Aramis invites sardonically.

"Thank you," the Marquis replies. "The hospitality of this place is sorely wanting."

"Unsurprising when opening your door means becoming dinner. The man in there-” Aramis gestures back to the kitchen, “-what did he see?"

"Why? Looking for another body to dissect?" The Marquis smiles in the dark, examining Aramis with wolfish eyes.

The lamplight stutters on the walls as Aramis bristles, rage simmering below the surface.

As they move nearer, stopping within a safe distance, D’Artagnan’s fingers twitch for his pistol, wishing for its comforting weight.

“Our friends will be avenged,” D’Artagnan speaks, murder in his eyes.

The Marquis examines them before showing his teeth. “I can smell your lies. Your companions live - and the child is with them.”

At that he turns, and D’Artagnan jerks forwards, filled with terror at the thought of once again losing their prey to the mists - of loosing him on their friends.

This time it is Aramis who advises caution, one hand propped on the wall. "Follow, but stay back."

"How do we take him down?" D'Artagnan asks beneath his breath.

Aramis snuffs out the feeble rushlight as though wringing its neck. "Any way we can."

As they exit the house, the empty windows watch. D’Artagnan wonders morbidly if more bodies are laid out inside.

"Perhaps another game?” the Marquis calls back. His trailing cloak turns the fallen leaves, revealing worms and creatures of the earth in the dark ground beneath. He passes the end of the silent village and starts up the steep slope ahead.

“Bullet wound to the side,” Aramis breaths, eyes fixed on the Marquis’ uneven gait. “Your shot was true - and would have felled an ordinary man.”

The Marquis reaches a sharp turn in the path and looks back. In the moonlight D’Artagnan can see the blood on his lips. “You will die to protect the child - that is clear. But the game is this: one of you stays and I let the others go free.”

“And the child?” D’Artagnan asks breathlessly, and waits only for the Marquis’ nod before agreeing, “I'll do it.” Upon speaking the words, heedless of their implications, the smell of the decomposing body seems to rise up and choke him once more.

"You will not," Aramis cuts over him, dispelling the haunting odor with his harsh tone. He jabs his knife at the Marquis. “For all we know you are the very Devil. You shall not take us. We resist you.” His hand is at his throat, crucifix gripped tightly in his bandaged fingers.

“You are a man of faith. So was he.” The Marquis tips his head towards the village - to the house where the man had severed his own leg. “But I am no demon and your resistance is nothing to me.”

D’Artagnan speaks to Aramis beneath his breath. “If we agree we can get close.”

Aramis briefly turns blazing eyes on him, and it is clear his friend fears for more than his mortal life.

“Playing petty games with us -” Aramis says, “-what is stopping you feasting on all Paris?”

The Marquis smiles and turns to continue up the path.

Aramis springs forwards. Despite being poised for attack, D’Artagnan is caught off guard and moves a fraction too late.

The Marquis fails to draw his own blade in time, but as they come together the creature half turns to deflect Aramis’ attempt to slice its throat. The creature’s teeth sink into Aramis’ arm as they twist together, loosening his grip on the knife, and the Marquis’ brute strength easily throws Aramis off.

D’Artagnan hears Aramis cry out as he is sent sprawling to the side, and then the creature is upon him. Seemingly more beast than man, the Marquis’ breath is hot and sharp on D’Artagnan’s face. Fingers rip into his back as he fights to drive his own knife into the thing’s belly. Then a clawed hand catches him by the throat and his breath is suddenly failing.

“This game will be more to your liking,” the Marquis says as his snarl recedes, sharp features returning to their icy calm as D’Artagnan slowly suffocates.

Just as D’Artagnan feels his limbs growing heavy and his vision failing, he is thrown to the ground. The hard earth crumbles beneath his body and the Gascon can now see the truth of their surrounds. The path is no longer lined with trees. Instead their steep route drops off sharply ahead, the path curving around the top of a cliff edge. And he can’t see Aramis.

“I’ll give your companions your regards.”

The sound of sliding rocks alerts him to his friend’s plight, and choking to regain his breath and equilibrium he turns his back on the Marquis to see Aramis’ hands slipping on the crumbling rock edge. Throwing himself forwards, he catches the marksman about the wrist, crying out as the man’s full weight yanks down on his shoulders.

As Aramis’ head jerks up in grateful relief, his hat slips off, tumbling down into the mist below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literal cliffhanger :o apologies all.
> 
> Sincere thanks for the feedback on the last chapter. It really adds to the enjoyment of writing this tale, and has actually altered its course, making the story longer (and with more Aramis) than previously planned ;) I’ll be sending out replies shortly.
> 
> Would love to hear if you enjoyed this one :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cold hand brushes his cheek.
> 
> He jerks, the intimate touch a frightening reminder of their vulnerability. The temptation to free one hand to defend himself is almost overwhelming, but his knees slip another inch, and he tightens his grip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies again for last chapter’s cliffhanger (although… well… you’ll see...)
> 
> I wanted to do a shout out to some very inspiring short tales:  
> [of things despaired of](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1843066) by cherryfeather (wonderful literal cliffhanger)  
> [The Gambling Man](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2726528) by Evergreen (a perfect supernatural tale).
> 
> And a big thank you to Deana for some very helpful suggestions and musings that were incorporated into chapter 5 ^_^
> 
> Hope you enjoy this one!

_Demon eyes, of a wild and ghastly vivacity, glared upon me in a thousand directions, where none had been visible before,_  
_and gleamed with the lurid lustre of a fire that I could not force my imagination to regard as unreal._  
~ The Pit and the Pendulum - Edgar Allan Poe ~

 

Athos presses his cheek against the cold stone wall as he listens intently. The air is clear and chill up here, the snaking spiral of the abbey stairs rising above the low lying mists.

Upon exploration they had found the basement levels to be crumbling and indefensible. He, Pothos and Luce had therefore climbed higher, following the twisting stair. Only one floor had been scaled, Athos leaning heavily on Porthos, before Luce declared her predicament.

Athos had looked with chagrin to Porthos, hoping the other man's varied upbringing had given him more experience with children's needs.

"Not to worry," Porthos had declared with a wink. "It's not far down. Let's count the stairs."

"Is Athos coming?" Luce asked.

"Athos can stay up here for a little rest," Porthos had said, ushering the girl back down and standing guard at the base of the tower as she relieved herself.

Athos shifts his weight, grateful for this moment alone to let his composure slip. With a grimace he slides a finger into his boot to relieve the pressure. The edge is pressing uncomfortably on the wound behind his knee, and it takes considerable effort to resist taking this opportunity to slice into the leather. But he remembers Aramis' words, and restrains himself.

Instead, with the stone digging unrelentingly into his tired limbs, he allows himself the deep breath he had half desired, half feared. As expected, the glorious breath is followed by a tightening of his throat, and a vicious racking cough that sets off further pain in his back and neck.

The sound echoes through the silent abbey, leaving him with his own sober reflections. But it would be perilous indeed to dive into that deep well here. To acknowledge that he now knew what it was to face execution at the hands of loved ones - even when falsity guided their hands. To ask himself whether the Marquis had _known_ the significance of his actions.

“It’s us,” Porthos hisses as he and Luce return to the base of the stair.

“Twenty steps,” Luce reports, hauling Athos’ reflections out of the mire and onto dry land.

“Time for another floor?” Porthos asks, giving Athos a searching, _knowing_ look.

Athos nods, levering himself up with a smothered groan and throwing one arm over Porthos' ever-reliable shoulder.

The twisting stair snakes upwards to a narrow ledge where the floor has crumbled away on both sides. Beyond the ledge is a wider stretch of sheltered passage, with only the stair stretching upwards.

"This will do," Athos declares breathlessly, unable to contemplate another floor. "That ledge will be an effective barrier should we need to defend it."

"I don't like it," Porthos frowns. "It feels... exposed."

"Less so than the lower floor," Athos says, but silently agrees. Despite logic telling him otherwise, with the cold air rushing up from the stone below and the moonlight clear above, the position feels open and vulnerable.

It is at that moment that the shouts cut through the silent surrounds. They are familiar and desperate, and Athos and Porthos find each other’s eyes in the dark. Luce looks up at them in fear.

"How do we know if it’s real?" Porthos asks, his tone doubt and urgency in equal parts. As the cries sound again, he winces in recognition of Aramis’ voice, though the words are indistinguishable.

"Go," Athos says, with bitter recognition of his own crumbling resolve. "We cannot take the chance. Find them."

With a sidelong glance at Luce, Porthos nods. "Here. Let's get you safe and sound first." He lifts the girl with ease, stepping confidently out onto the precarious ledge and depositing her safely on the other side.

"And shall you carry me too?" Athos asks flatly, to hide his trepidation at crossing the narrow path.

"I've done it before," Porthos quips, eyeing Athos like a sack a grain. “Though never while conscious."

They cannot not walk side by side on the narrow way, so instead they shuffle sideways, each tentative step making Athos more grateful for Porthos' support. His leg takes his weight, but not with confidence.

When they are both comfortably situated in the alcove, Porthos places Luce's dolls down beside her - the soldier and D’Artagnan’s carved figurine. He kneels down, letting the girl equal his own height. "Be a good girl an’ look after Athos," he says. "He’s good at getting into trouble."

"I'm in charge," she nods solemnly to accept the duty.

Athos' raises an eyebrow in amusement, but does not dispute it.

Porthos offers his sword to Athos. "I'll find them."

"I have my knife," Athos says, feeling behind him to be sure.

"Take it," Porthos says with a meaningful glance at Luce. "It’s your best chance."

Athos accepts, feeling as though the act is drawing his friend's very lifeblood.

"Don't look like that,” Porthos half grins. “I'll leave all the fancy swordplay to you and Aramis.” His eyes harden at speaking their friend’s name. “All I need is my fists."

“Stay safe. Trust nothing," Athos says, letting his hand linger on the other man’s shoulder as he turns away. The inadequacy of the words is eclipsed by the echo of their friend’s cries in his mind.

As Porthos descends, pushing into the dark like their companions before him, Athos is struck by the strangeness of being left alone with the child.

Perhaps she senses the change, for she glances down at her toy soldier and asks, "Are you a captain?"

He shakes his head, listening distractedly for any further sounds of Aramis and D'Artagnan.

"Why not?" she asks, taking him off guard. But before he can answer- "Is D'Artagnan a captain?"

"Not he either."

"Is Porthos..."

"Luce," Athos interrupts, seeing where the course was leading. "Perhaps you can tell me more of what has been happening in your village. What do your parents say?"

He felt her shiver, the fright returning to her eyes.

"I would make a good captain," she asserts instead.

Athos sighs inwardly but lets the child talk. Better to keep her calm. If she chose to run from this place, he would not be able to follow.

"I can count. I can give orders," she lists. "And I can shout. Paul says I can shout louder than any girl in the village."

"All good skills," he agrees, a little afraid that a demonstration might follow, but unable to prevent a smile at the words. "But there is other qualities that might be useful."

When she looks at him questionably, he indulges. "Patience, and bravery. A captain must always look after his men, must never show his fear, and must always have a plan up his sleeve."

She glances at his sleeves.

"What else?"

"Honour," he adds sincerely, drawing her back under the cover of the alcove.

As they settle back to wait, Porthos’ sword resting across Athos’ knees, Luce gathers a rock from the ground and carefully scratches at the wall, picking out the crumbling mortar between two bricks. "What is honour?"

He considers that, but the sudden howling of wolves eclipses the thought.

 _Porthos_.

He gently nudges her further out of sight, scooping her dolls from the ground and pushing them into her small fingers. "Hold tight to your captain. We will see this through."

* * *

D’Artagnan’s knees scrabble for purchase on the shifting rocks. The mist curls about Aramis’ ankles, the drop beyond a sea of swirling white, and together they teeter on the edge of the unknown.

A soft step behind - and a shadow falls over them. With dawning helplessness, D’Artagnan watches Aramis’ panicked gaze slide upwards. He had thought the Marquis gone in search of their friends, but knows now that the creature stands behind him.

A cold hand brushes his cheek.

He jerks, the intimate touch a frightening reminder of their vulnerability. The temptation to free one hand to defend himself is almost overwhelming, but his knees slip another inch, and instead he tightens his grip. The action causes both men to groan as their injured hands are further forced to support Aramis’ weight.

“Help us,” D’Artagnan breaths, breaking the silence with his reluctant entreaty.

At any moment he expects the Marquis to thrust a blade between his ribs from behind. That would be the end of them both. But the creature does not act, and simply watches them struggle, standing so close behind D’Artagnan that the Gascon can hear his breath

“What kind of victory is this?” Aramis gasps, succeeding in latching his other hand to D’Artagnan’s.

D’Artagnan shrinks away from another touch from behind, briefly squeezing his eyes shut to endure the provocation. The slow slide of something ice cold against the side of his neck sends shivers creeping down his spine, and the deliberate, protracted act grates against the urgency of their situation. It’s almost a relief when the sharp point of the blade slides into his vision.

“Would you prefer I slit his throat?”

D’Artagnan forces himself to stillness, his own breathing loud in his ears as Aramis falls silent. He holds his friend’s gaze, anchoring himself to it even as he anchors the other man to the earth. D’Artagnan did not contemplate death often, choosing instead to rush into the fray and letting speed and exhilaration wash away fear. But he is no stranger to the shrinking helplessness that now curls in his gut. Vadim had forced it upon him. Others too. But the blade shifts away, and D’Artagnan takes a tentative breath.

“Call to your friends for help,” the Marquis orders softly.

D’Artagnan turns his head, yearning to see the creature’s face - judge its intentions. His mouth is so dry. Could he raise his voice even if he wished to do so?

“Why?” Aramis asks, his face having paled at the creature’s request. “You could simply steal our voices.”

The Marquis does not respond, and D’Artagnan senses some silent exchange is taking place behind his back.

“We’ll die anyway-” Aramis says, and D’Artagnan knows the words are meant for him. “We’ll not take our brothers down with us.”

D’Artagnan feels a surge of determination at the pact, until the cold steel bites gently into the side of his neck.

“It is surprising what a man will do for one more breath of life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cringes… another cliffhanger… apologies!… but the shorter chapter allowed for a faster update.
> 
> Would love to hear if you enjoyed this one. Hopefully it had a few good bits for all the boys.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Athos says nothing, opening his parched mouth to the rain, Aramis shakes him. “He didn’t have a chance. Athos - I couldn’t-”
> 
> “Stop,” Athos begs sharply.
> 
> “Then say something.” The angry and bitter notes that Athos expects are there. “You sent him out there.” Aramis' words hurt more than they should. “He was injured - the weakest of us-”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, thank you for the lovely and engaging comments on the last chapter! 
> 
> This is a double-length chapter as the climax of the tale. One chapter remains after this.
> 
> Please note - this chapter contains violence, and unpleasant situations.
> 
> | _Edit as of 18/19 Nov - I've rearranged the structure a little based on feedback that the chapter was confusing - hope this helps._

_But evil things, in robes of sorrow,_  
_Assailed the monarch's high estate._  
_(Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow_  
_Shall dawn upon him desolate!)_  
_And round about his home the glory_  
_That blushed and bloomed,_  
_Is but a dim-remembered story_  
_Of the old time entombed._  
~ Poe the Haunted Place

 

Another sharp pain shooting through his hand and D’Artagnan blinks against the impending darkness. Clamping his jaw to prevent the sounds that would alert Aramis to how much the movement strained, he sucks in a breath. “Aramis… I’m sorry.”

Determined not to indulge the Marquis’ dark desires - not to tempt their friends back into the creature’s path - their resolve had held only until the blade bit into D’Artagnan’s neck. The blood had spilled down his outstretched arm, over their joined hands, sliding over his fingers and slicking his tenuous hold. When it came to it, they could not stare down the prospect of each other's demise with calm acceptance.

And so now they are alone.

Aramis does not look up, disappointed rage evident as he kicks out once more, his attempts to find purchase on the cliff edge more desperate now that they are free from observation.

This time, D’Artagnan grunts out loud, unable to hide the truth from his friend any longer. “Aramis, I’m slipping-”

The marksman stills at once, breathing hard and looking up to recognise D’Artagnan’s rapidly paling face.

“And I can’t see. The blood - I think-” D’Artagnan broke off, head heavy, lips and jaw becoming slack. How soon until he could no longer feel his fingers?

“Deep breath, D’Artagnan,” Aramis urges, deathly still now he knows their true peril. "The cut is not so deep - the bleeding already slowing. You could-"

“I won’t let go,” D’Artagnan slurs fiercely before the other man can suggest it.

“There’s no sense in us both falling,” Aramis says softly. “We do not know what is down there - I may well survive it.”

D’Artagnan licks dry lips, pushing himself to forget about the blood spilling down his neck - the warm, hazy sensation...

“Cushions,” Aramis broke into his thoughts. “Sure to be.”

D’Artagnan huffs a fatalistic laugh, the sound suspiciously like a sob.

“Listen,” Aramis hisses, quickly turning to anger, “Let go, and you can protect the others. Fall, and we leave them here alone.”

D’Artagnan sucks in a breath, closing his eyes. “That’s not - I could never-”

Aramis’ lips are moving - a silent prayer, perhaps - but then his eyes shift, widen, at a noise from over D’Artagnan’s shoulder.

Had the Marquis returned?

Out of the corner of his eye, he can make out the familiar shape of their friend.

“Porthos?”

D’Artagnan cranes his burning neck. Porthos is at full alert, eyes fixed on a pile of rocks a few feet from their position. His body is ridged, and he is armed with nothing but a knife.

“Porthos, I’m slipping.”

Porthos’ panicked eyes snap briefly to D’Artagnan’s face. “All for one!” he calls, a muttered string of unintelligible curses following.

“And every man for himself!” D’Artagnan gasps out their own particular brand of Musketeer patriotism. “For God’s sake, Porthos, help us!”

Porthos lets out a strangled moan at the correct return of the phrase, and edges to the side, then back to the other side. “Wolf,” he says by explanation, nearly unable to say the word. “It - I can’t.”

“There’s nothing there,” D’Artagnan gasps, realising Porthos’ predicament. “Rocks. Nothing Porthos - believe me.”

Porthos grits his teeth, rocking slightly on the spot, then charges towards them, turning his back on his fear to throw himself down on the rocks beside D’Artagnan and lend his considerable strength to their plight.

D’Artagnan can feel Porthos’ body trembling against his own, head turning in little jerks to check behind. With both of them pulling, Aramis’ weight is easily manageable, and D’Artagnan lets Porthos bear the brunt of it.

The moment Aramis is on safe ground, Porthos turns. “It’s gone,” he says, sweat pouring off him. “I - I’m - couldn't”

“But you did,” Aramis gasps gratefully, rolling on his back with a heaving sigh of relief.

* * *

 

> _The portrait hangs in the old house, where dust hovers like insects in the dying sun. As always, Thomas’ likeness hangs between his own visage and that of his ‘wife’ - yet today something is different. Perhaps it is that the gilt frame has tarnished - or that, when he takes a step closer, his brother’s eyes track his movement. The face is familiar, but somehow uncanny. Athos' eyes slide over the features, seeing only the teeth - strangely sharp, and the line of the jaw - jutting forwards and unlike the handsome profile he remembered._
> 
> _There is a draft - disconcerting in that still place - a chill to the air. He licks dry lips, suddenly keenly aware that his throat is parched and aching, and his leg heavy with pain._
> 
> You burned _, he recalls with a rush of clarity. You all burned._

He jerks awake at the touch of an icy hand.

"You were dreaming," Luce says with a tentative step back.

The gnawing thirst. The dull throb of his knee. The days without rest. It is little wonder that he had briefly succumbed to sleep.

“How long?” He swallows with difficulty, grateful that she has stayed close and not strayed during his lapse.

She clenches her jaw against a trembling lip. That same determined expression had first endeared him to her protection. “Not very long,” she whispers. “But I heard something move. Down there.”

Below them, bare tree branches claw at stone walls. The still air has given way to drizzle as he slept, and the fresh, earthy scent of rain is in the air. Moonlight slanting down through the broken roof reveals a figure at the the foot of the stairs.

“It is Porthos?” Luce asks hopefully.

Athos catches himself as he leans out a little too far, glove sliding on the now slippery stone. His outstretched hand cautions Luce from making the same mistake. “Stay back, _ma petite_. It is too dark to see.”

In shadow below them, the figure drags something along the earth - someone - the dead weight of a body hauled beneath the arms.

Heart racing, Athos draws back. With palms pressed flat against the rock wall behind, he hauls himself to standing height.

And blood rushes to his head.

> _"Luce?" Athos breathes, stumbling a little, but more lucid than before - more wary of allowing himself the luxury of another waking dream. It is all too tempting to indulge - to slip into a place where thirst and fear are dulled. And the new dream is vivid. No crumbling abbey walls, but a Paris backstreet lit by a single hanging lantern, shifting slowly in the wind._
> 
> _He tries again. “Luce?”_
> 
> _A noise from the shadows ahead, and corresponding footfalls behind._
> 
> _His breath slips away in recognition - the years between_ that cursed night _and this closing in an instant. How is it possible that the old sights and smells could return to haunt him now in such lurid detail? The piss and filth of the alley; the tearing howl of a cat in heat; and the distant clash of tavern dishes from Rue de l'Echelle._
> 
> Fight it.
> 
> _He cocks his head to take in two men behind. Athos had not had the sense to fear, then, instincts quashed by alcohol and despair. But now, with a clear head and a brief surge of foolish hope, he wonders if this is his chance for retribution._
> 
> Luce.
> 
> _But of course there is no truth in this memory - and even now he hears slow footsteps on the abbey stair, climbing slowly in the recesses of his mind._
> 
> _"We watched you.” The first man nods towards the tavern, grizzled beard hiding blackened teeth. “Musketeer.” The shove to his pauldron from behind makes Athos stumble - gives him the uncomfortable realisation that his senses are not limited to sight and smell._
> 
> _“Pissin' away the King’s gold on drink." That second, rasping voice had gained power in his shamed recollections, and Athos had forgotten its servile quality. But something inside still shrinks at its return._
> 
> _“Followed you there from the square,” the first voice adds._
> 
> _The second man, the shortest of the three, circles. “You brought the men from the prison. Strung them up.”_
> 
> _“Should I deny it?” Athos asks without caution. His words are heavy and slow, but he could have feigned sobriety had he thought it worth the effort._
> 
> _“My sister’s boy - he didn’t take anything - didn’t attack that woman like they said he did.” The short man stabs a thick finger at Athos’ chest. “They hanged an innocent man, and you didn’ raise a finger.”_
> 
> _Athos had scoffed at that. “Perhaps my fingers are not so light as your thieving nephew’s.” The perpetrator had been no boy, but a notorious thug. Athos had seen the vicious proof of the attack - the woman who defied him had nearly lost a hand._
> 
> _A snarl ripples from the short one, and the three men close in._
> 
> _If he had accepted Porthos’ offer of company after the hanging, or walked away from that last bottle, challenging the three of them would have been nothing. But now the wine bottle - that makeshift weapon that had caused more harm than good - is clenched in Athos’ fist, and as if in recognition, the old ache in his side returns. With determined hindsight, Athos wills himself to let the thick glass slide from his fingers - to leave himself open to attack - but to let that cursed bottle lie amid the other debris on the alley floor._
> 
> _To_ alter _the course of events._
> 
> _But his fingers remain clenched around the bottle neck._
> 
> _Rage and fear break loose inside in recognition of his helplessness, an involuntary sound spilling from his lips._
> 
> _His limbs move without urging, awkward and heavy, to splinter the base of the bottle against the alley wall. Jutting shards glint queasily in the light from the hanging lamp as he bares his teeth, having been confident enough in his swordsmanship to take on these three alone. And he has just enough skill with his impromptu weapon to take the first one’s eyes out, to leave him screaming and bleeding._
> 
> _Just enough skill to enrage them beyond all reason._
> 
> _With the anticipated blow to the back of his knee, his mind cringing uselessly around the site of his most recent injury, Athos feels again the nauseous lurch of falling. He lacks any grace to halt the descent, and, as before, the cobblestones crack into his chin and leave his jaw ringing with the impact._
> 
> _Their attempts to keep him down - vicious kicks digging into his stomach - continue until he finds himself half crouched against the wall. He starts to retch, sour alcohol spilling from his lips onto their boots. He is lost in it now - more so, perhaps, than the first time - for he knows what is to come and has no hope of changing it. With hopeless inevitability, he catches hold of the short one’s ankle and raises the bottle to strike._

And Luce is cringing back away from him. His fingers are twisted in her skirts, and gripped in his other hand - not a bottle - but his main gauche!

Forcing his fingers to loosen as the rain begins to fall in earnest, Athos chokes out, "Luce." Suppressing rising sickness and trembling at the thought of the vision's return, he casts his knife aside, reaching for Porthos' sword to do the same.

When at last he looks up from his pitiful crouch, Luce’s cheeks are damp. Whether from rain or tears, the sight inspires an uncharacteristic desire to draw the child to him and offer comfort. But the stale memory of alcohol coats his tongue. _Unclean_. "Luce, you’re not safe here. You’re not safe with _me_ ,” he breathes.

The sound of boots breaks in upon Athos’ thoughts - climbing steadily - slowly. So close now. Could it be Porthos returning? Porthos, had he remained, would not shrink and crawl beneath the weight of past mistakes.

“Luce,” he speaks with suppressed urgency, silently motioning her towards the stairs. Seemingly more afraid of the unknown footsteps than of Athos, she obeys. “You cannot stay here. You must be be ready to run.”

He and Porthos had thought to make a stand here, with Luce behind them. They had planned to use the steep narrow path to their advantage. But with the visions impeding his judgement - his very actions, there is only one course. With teeth gritted he and Luce edge together across the precarious drop, and she shrinks into the alcove at his urging.

They have but a moment before the figure tops the rise. Athos lunges without hesitation, slamming his own body into that of their pursuer - into the crumbling wall, almost buckling with the impact but grasping anything within reach.

Cold hands grip him in return, slippery with rain, pushing him back, but he keeps the newcomer pressed against the wall with all his remaining strength.

“Athos. Athos!”

Aramis’ face comes into focus but Athos does not slacken his grip. Gaze resolutely fixed on his friend’s familiar features, he sees Luce flee her refuge behind, hesitating at the top of the stairs, before Aramis fills his vision.

“I didn’t think to find you standing,” Aramis gasps as he eyes Athos’ injured leg. Despite the gash that now mars Aramis own thigh, cleaved as though by an axe, he takes more of Athos’ sagging weight upon himself.

“Let me help you down," the marksman offers. "And where is..?" He trails off, craning his neck to the side as he finds no sign of Luce.

Athos resists, keeping the other pressed against the wall. “Not yet. Tell me what happened.”

Aramis gives him a long suffering look, but his eyes wander, drifting down to the abbey floor far below. “It’s bad, Athos." He stucks in a breath. “D’Artagnan he’s…” Shaking his head, he swallows thickly. “There’s nothing I can do-”

A curling horror in Athos’ belly writhes for control. The urge to slacken his grip, to peer over the precipice to the body below, is almost overwhelming. “Where’s Porthos?” he croaks instead, and seems to hear again the howl of the wolves.

“I don’t know,” Aramis replies, resting his head back wearily against the wall. “Still out there - God willing... It took D’Artagnan first.”

Aramis watches for his friend’s reaction, and Athos slumps a little further, fingers digging into the marksman’s shoulders.

When Athos says nothing, opening his parched mouth to the rain, Aramis shakes him. “He didn’t have a chance. Athos - it gutted him slowly - I couldn’t-”

“Stop,” Athos begs sharply.

“Then _say_ something.” The angry and bitter notes that Athos expects are there. “You sent him out there.” Aramis' words hurt more than they should. “He was injured - the weakest of us-”

“The _best_ of us,” Athos grates out. “It was not my decision alone,” he breaths. “We all agreed. _All for one_.”

Hands still braced on Aramis’ shoulders, he waits, barely breathing.

“If nothing else we’ve kept _her_ safe," Aramis' voice agrees, failing the test. His eyes shift, searching for Luce.

For a split second, Athos' fingers grow numb with relief. The Marquis might destroy him, but there is every possibility the creature’s words are false - that D’Artagnan yet lives.

Then, as if sensing his doubt, the Marquis explodes into motion, shoving against Athos’ grip. Muscles screaming in protest and dismayed at the sheer strength of the creature, Athos holds a moment, then yields, allowing the momentum of the snarling attack to propel them backwards. Only a little nudge to the left, and they are teetering on the edge of the sunken wall, frigid air rushing up from the drop below.

There is a moment, as the creature's foot slides on the rain drenched stone, when Athos has a chance to take both down. But in gripping his friend's familiar brown coat, with the smell of leather and gunpowder overpowering that of the rain, he hesitates. Fool that he is - he's reluctant to deal the thing a death blow while it bears Aramis’ form - or worse still, perhaps he is simply too cowardly to end his own life .

Whichever the reason, it costs Athos his brief advantage, and the creature gains control, slamming him back-first into the rock wall. Breath stolen by the impact, hair dripping into his eyes, he barely reacts as the Marquis' cold hand clamps around his throat.

In the sudden stillness, he can see where Aramis ends and the Marquis begins - like twins whose features, after a time, become so distinct that one can no longer fathom their similarity.

“Where is the girl?”

“You cannot sense her like you can us,” Athos suggests with scorn. “That is why you hunt her.”

“She is - different,” the Marquis admits. “Exotic. A challenge.”

"Then how does this end?” Athos grates. “You toy with us until we break? Until we are brought low by thirst?”

The hand on his throat forces his head back; the rain feels cold on his upturned face. “If you are thirsty-” the Marquis says, “-take a drink.”

> _The abbey walls fall away. The hand pinning his throat seems to thicken._
> 
> _Unlike before, recognition comes almost at once in the form of a black iron grate above his head. Athos knows that grate - had shivered and paced in his shirtsleeves beneath it for days with only the interminable drip, drip, drip to mark the passing of time. With each drip his fortitude had weakened, and by the time Aramis and Porthos broke through the cell door, he had been ready to tear them apart to know whether D’Artagnan lived._
> 
> _Afterwards, when Constance had installed D’Artagnan by a blazing fire, force feeding him soup, Aramis had half-joked that they finally knew a way to break Athos’ fabled stoicism._
> 
> _He had not been wrong._
> 
> _For years, Aramis and Porthos had chipped away at his reserve, embedding themselves deeply in his heart. But in that cell, the resolution he had made years before - to hold himself apart from the world - had begun to crack._
> 
> _But now a harsh backhand blow grounds him to the scene - throwing his head against the wall - reigniting fire across his shoulders._
> 
> _“The boy told us everything he knows.” Rougemont’s sour breath invades his nostrils, thick fingers bearing down on Athos’ windpipe. “It didn’t take long to break him.”_
> 
> _Three days, Athos had mused. Most men would not have lasted half the time in Rougemont’s care. The man was a cut above the common rogue - having worked his way from trade to a less savoury profession._
> 
> _“Then why return?” Athos had sneered, suppressing that question which had stretched moments into hours: does D’Artagnan live? “Surely by now you have the measure of me.”_
> 
> _A scornful laugh bubbles up weakly from Athos' chest._
> 
> _He knows how this ends. Let the Marquis toy with him here in the past if it stops him from pursuing Luce. This memory holds no sway over him._
> 
> _The stale stench of sweat and ale is all consuming as Rougemont leans in, crushing his bound hands against the cell wall behind. “We don't know the port.”_
> 
> _Dieppe. Three days hence. Or is had it been two? The details had faded since. Nevertheless, D'Artagnan had indeed known of the arrangement and had endured Roguemont’s questioning. He had even, Athos discovered later, fed them false times for the shipment. In that cell, pride and fear had surged in equal measure. A few short months into their friendship and D’Artagnan had staked his place firmly in Athos' heart._
> 
> _Rougemont’s stained teeth, inches from Athos’ eye line, seem sharp and predatory. “How can we come to an understanding?”_
> 
> _The heavy door slams open, and two men throw D’Artagnan to the stone floor. The Gascon manages to catch his fall with trapped hands - but falters before raising his head. Torchlight spills into the cell from the corridor, alighting on his bare shoulders, crossed with welts like Athos’ own._
> 
> _“I warned you not to touch him.” Eyes blazing, Athos bucks beneath Rougemont’s hold, forcing the man to exchange the hand at his throat for a forearm. Rougemont seems a little disconcerted - and Athos revels in the violence of the brief exchange, having forgotten the depths of his disgust for this man._
> 
> _Hair in his eyes, D’Artagnan looks up at the sound of Athos’ voice, cautiously searching the dark cell, but fails to spot Athos behind Rougemont’s bulk. From the open door, there is the disconcerting sound of dogs howling. Athos had no memory of dogs here._
> 
> _“D’Artagnan,” Athos had said, voice strained with thirst. He drew heart from the fact that D’Artagnan’s alert gaze could find his own. “Are you well?”_
> 
> _“Well enough.” There is controlled panic in the young man’s eyes. “A little insulted to find you have the larger room.”_
> 
> _Athos had snorted silently at that, but it had not assuaged his concern. D’Artagnan’s stiff movement, the way he angled his chest just so as the men dragged him from the floor, told of the broken rib they had discovered later._
> 
> _“Perhaps we can cut the truth from him," Rougemont suggests. "He won’t have a chance. I’ll gut him slowly…”_
> 
> _With a spike of confusion, Athos recognises the words. They are from a different time - a different place: high on that abbey tower..._
> 
> _As the two mercenaries shove D’Artagnan’s chest down onto the bench, earning a pained grunt, it is strange to feel again the same deep stab of fear. This is only a memory, after all, uncomfortable, but a memory all the same. Athos is confident that some development puts a halt to this - yet with swelling uncertainly, he cannot recall the nature of the interruption._
> 
> _Do you have it, Roguemont?" asks a silhouette from the doorway. The voice is uncomfortably familiar, but somehow Athos cannot remember the newcomer's face - his name._
> 
> _“Not yet, sir,” Roguement says, gesturing to D’Artagnan, who had remained resolutely silent, chest heaving in pained bursts against the bench._
> 
> _"You have had three days..." the disengaged voice comments, and the man moves into the torchlight._
> 
> _The Marquis stands before them - wrapped in the same elegant cloak, and exuding that youthful, intelligent air that had first caused them to lower their guard._
> 
> _As the Marquis grasps D'Artagnan by the hair to examine his perspiring face,_  
>  _Something falls away - uncoils - and Athos is no longer chained by the constraints of the memory._
> 
> _The creature releases D'Artagnan upon finding Athos' eyes upon him. “Are all Musketeers so resilient?” he asks with interest._
> 
> _“Musketeers cling inconveniently to life,” Athos returns acerbically, eager for the facade of this memory to be striped away. “If nothing else, you have learnt that of us.”_
> 
> _“Indeed,” the Marquis agrees, stepping closer. “And what have you learnt of me.”_
> 
> _Athos breaths thickly through his nose. “Your powers might be limited, but you could have destroyed us from the first. You chose to hunt for pleasure - repeatedly squandered opportunities for a sure, clean victory in favour of inflicting suffering...”_
> 
> _“I admit I relish a challenge," the Marquis agrees. "But you brought it upon yourselves. We ask very little. It is not worth your resistance - not worth your man’s life."_
> 
> _Across the room, D’Artagnan twists in the hands that hold him, a spike of agony crossing his face. “Athos - say nothing.”_
> 
> _The Marquis ignores him. "After all, what concern is it of yours is if we take the ship?”_
> 
> _Why did the creature maintain this pretense? “I know what you truly seek,”_
> 
> _“What I truly seek?” The Marquis narrows his eyes. “Do you even recall what you so stubbornly protect? Rose de Luce. Forty gun frigate. Come, you must remember.”_
> 
> _That name..._
> 
> _Athos shakes his head - clears the fog._
> 
> _“My dear man,” the Marquis says pityingly, attempting to turn Athos’ jaw with a cold hand that has him jerking back. “I do believe you have lost your wits.”_
> 
> _“You claimed to be the Marquis de Coublans,” Athos says, voice dangerously low. “You hunted us. Wounded us. You twisted our senses into seeing…”_
> 
> _He sucks in a breath at the latest noise that slips from D’Artagnan, the implausibility of his own words creeping upon him by degrees. Could it all have been a feverish nightmare - his knowledge of how this ends just a fantasy? The heated skin of his back throbs as if in agreement. /Infection. His bleary gaze seeks something tangible - the wound at the Marquis’ shoulder. “It was my blade that drew your blood…”_
> 
> _“Indeed,” the Marquis agrees bitterly, patting his hip where Athos’ sword now hangs. “You were lucid enough when we began. Perhaps we went a little too far in our efforts to extract-”_
> 
> _“No,” Athos bit off. “You orchestrated this - and there is no more truth in it than the other visions - the other torments.”_
> 
> _The Marquis motions to Roguemont and the man swings a boot into Athos unprotected knee. He goes down in a haze of pain._
> 
> _“Does this_ feel _like truth?”_
> 
> _D’Artagnan’s stifled cry breaks in upon him. “Does his pain_ sound _genuine?”_
> 
> _Athos does not attempt to rise from his knees - his own laboured breaths filling the silence - D’Artagnan’s smothered gasps._
> 
> _“That’s enough.” The Marquis turns sharply away. “The boy knows nothing more and this man is broken. We do not have the manpower to cover all the ports. Better to pin our hopes on finding the other two in the woods.”_
> 
> _Roguemont grunts. “They were injured during the rescue attempt. They won’t get far. What about these two?”_
> 
> _“Keep one for leverage. Let the Lieutenant decide which.”_
> 
> _Athos is jerked forwards - his hands freed. In a daze, he feels the grip of a long knife pressed into his fingers._

* * *

 “Up there?” D’Artagnan hisses.

The side of Porthos’ mouth crumples in reluctant agreement, eyes tracing the abbey stairs up to where he had last seen Athos and Luce.

“If we were not afraid of heights before today…” Aramis begins, peering up to the tower above, then trails off as he lists sideways.

“Steady there,” Porthos says, catching his friend beneath an arm.

D’Artagnan shares a look with Porthos as Aramis closes his eyes to let the sensations pass.

In the silence, voices travel down to them from above. Athos’ dry tones - and the Marquis’. The creature’s voice sends uncomfortable convulsions across D’Artagnan’s neck. He can feel again the intimate touch of that hand on his cheek - the slow slide of the blade - and the feeling that something stands behind him.

Porthos catches D'Artagnan’s arm as he takes to the stair - halting the younger man’s progress.

D’Artagnan turns back with burning eyes, unable to argue for fear of being overheard, but willing his friends to let him do this. Hand pressed over his bleeding neck and arms still aching from supporting Aramis’ weight, he is burning with /rage and humiliation.

Porthos nods once and frees his arm, giving D’Artagnan the lead. “Trust nothing,” he mouths.

“Scout out what’s happening. We’ll follow behind,” Aramis adds in a low whisper.

D’Artagnan despises rain; the stone is slimy and treacherous beneath his boots. Breathing in the chill air - fingers numb on his sword hilt - he climbs.

Below, Porthos and Aramis are proceeding slowly, silently, with the marksman’s hand braced on the wall. D’Artagnan’s own weariness is eclipsed by a growing horror. Why have the voices above ceased?

As he reaches the top, he does not know what he expects to find. A deadly duel? Bodies strewn across the stones? But not Athos kneeling alone, with a knife tip held to his chest.

“Athos!” The cry slips out, dashing his stealthy approach to splinters.

He has only a moment to mark the absence of Luce, the bitter line of Athos’ jaw, before the Marquis emerges from the shadows of the crumbling wall - smiling.

And all light leaves the world.

Suddenly blind, D’Artagnan staggers to a halt. He can still feel the rain, hear the wind in the trees. Ghostly images of the abbey walls thrum behind his eyes, but he is not confident where the ground narrows and falls away ahead.

Below, he hears a curse on the stairs. /Porthos. God help them if they are all equally blind.

Though his heart is in his mouth, he makes himself speak through gritted teeth. “Athos- Athos - put down the knife.”

The tip of his own blade hovers in the Marquis’ direction, while his ears strain for any sound that could give away the creature’s position. Athos had made him practice as such once, blindfolded so that he could not cheat. He had been thoroughly trounced, but the lesson had been well taught. Only a fool relied on sight alone.

“D’Artagnan,” Athos says calmly, fondly even, from somewhere ahead. “Believe me when I tell you that there is no other way.” Acceptance. Resolution. His friend’s tone strikes fear into his limbs, makes him weak with it.

He shuffles towards Athos’ voice, feet edging carefully. He’s only moved a few steps when the tip of his sword nudges something ahead and he swipes violently, meeting only air. He has the sudden thought that perhaps Athos is not before him, that he is being lured to fall to his death...

“Whatever you are seeing - it’s not real,” he calls.

“I know it now,” Athos agrees bitterly. “Only a madman could conjure such a wild tale.”

D’Artagnan does not understand. “There’s always another way,” he tries. “You taught me that. Aramis, Porthos… They’re coming.” He cannot see if the names of their friends are having any effect.

Promise me something,” Athos asks with an air of finality. “You will not let this - any sense of misplaced guilt - stop you. When you leave this place, you will never look back. Aramis and Porthos will understand.”

D’Artagnan throws caution to the wind and lowers his sword, lunging toward Athos’ former position - only to be seized by the creature from behind. His arm is jerked up behind him, twisted to loosen his hold on his sword. Feeling the hot breath of the creature on his neck, he lurches to the side - towards the edge.

“He is lost,” the Marquis says, and D'Artagnan can //feel that he is smiling. But you will no doubt find it a comfort that he chooses death in /your place.”

D’Artagnan swings his elbow into solid ribs, and is repaid by claws ripping into his forearms as the creature attempts to retain purchase. He cries out in sudden gripping fear. They struggle on upon a precipice, wind buffeting them from below, rain slicking his grip, but somehow under it all he hears the subtle sound of flesh parting to a blade.

D’Artagnan chokes. “Athos!”

“I’m here.” That steady voice beside him - less steady, perhaps, than of old - but then, “Together!”

They move as one, D’Artagnan feeling for the Marquis’ resistance and shoving all the harder toward it.

And then all at once he is overbalancing, released from the creature’s grip. Far below, the Marquis’ body strikes the earth with a wet thump. D’Artagnan’s stomach lurches suddenly as his eyesight returns - the drop awaiting him suddenly becoming clear.

A strong arm bands across his chest from behind and pulls him back from the edge. “Thank Christ,” Porthos mutters in D’Artagnan’s ear, loosening his grip so that the Gascon can catch a breath.

“Another moment blind and we’d have been too late...” Aramis adds, edging back from the drop with deliberation.

D’Artagnan takes a last look down, before mastering his hesitation. He had allowed himself the queasy thought that this final stand alongside the man he so admired had been the Marquis’ last cruel trick - and that upon turning he would find only blood and despair.

But familiar bloodshot eyes greet his, and Athos is there in truth - is grabbing his neck, tilting it to see the damage from the Marquis’ blade. D’Artagnan lets that last dark fear fade into the mist, as he is pulled into a clumsy one-armed embrace.

“Thank you,” Athos tells him, with deep sincerity.

“What did you see?” D’Artagnan asks in Athos’ ear before they part. Held discretely by Athos’ side is the knife, red with the Marquis’ blood, and Athos’ knuckles white on its hilt.

Athos shakes his head once as they part, damp eyes boring into D’Artagnan’s. Willing him to say nothing. Not yet.

“Did Luce find you?” Athos limps away from the edge and lowers himself down onto the top step.

Porthos shakes his head. “She was with you..”

Athos looks up as if Porthos’ words are an accusation. “She was not safe with me.”

D’Artagnan reads something dark, something of self recrimination in that exchange, but says determinedly, “we’ll find her.”

“She’s a fighter,” Porthos says with faith. “She’ll have survived.”

“And he can pursue her no longer. It’s over,” Aramis laughs with a slightly manic edge, reaching out an arm to help Athos back to his feet. “We’re free of him.”

“Let me,” D’Artagnan interjected.

“Won’t forget this night,” Porthos grunts, recovering his sword from the end of the platform before following them down the steep stairwell.

“We’ll have a tale to tell,” Aramis agrees, one hand raised to shelter his eyes from the rain. “Worth a few drinks at the very least - if I can string it out a little… Perhaps the milliner’s daughter might appreciate such a tale...”

“You’re unbelievable,” D’Artagnan sighs, picturing Aramis recounting the tale. Rapt tavern customers would lean in, eager for details but believing the story no more than if Aramis claimed the King regularly boiled his own potatoes.

Athos looks back with weary amusement, noting Aramis’ missing hat. “What horrors did you two encounter in the woods?”

Aramis smiles a little wistfully, and it’s clear to D’Artagnan that beneath the cheerful banter, the shadow of that fetid house remains.

However, in the east, the sky is taking on a dusky glow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story started out as an Athos & D'Art tale, hence the focus of this chapter - but I hope Aramis and Porthos fans still enjoyed it.
> 
> Thanks once more for the kind feedback ^_^ Hope you enjoyed this latest chapter, and that it wasn't too confusing? Many early mornings and late nights to get this one done :s
> 
> One chapter remains :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aramis thumps his fist on the table, wincing. “You are both fools,” he says, gaze travelling worriedly from Athos’ knee to Porthos’ bandaged arm, “and should your neglect result in infection, you will deserve it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovely readers,
> 
> What a long time it took me to finish this tale :’( I think I was a little disappointed at the second-last chapter - a pasting error slipped through (Porthos’ rescue of Aramis and D’Artagnan should have included the completed code phrase - ‘All for one - and every man for himself’ - now fixed), and I believe the structure and tone of the chapter made the climax of the tale confusing (the chapter has now been restructured which I hope will help a little).
> 
> Nevertheless, we come to the very final chapter. Thank you for joining me on this journey and for all your kind words of encouragement!
> 
> Enjoy!

_Or do you hope, when sing the violins,_  
_And the pale candle-flame lights up our sins,_  
_To drive some mocking nightmare far apart,_  
_And cool the flame hell lighted in your heart?_  
The Dance of Death ~ Charles Baudelaire

 

They reach the foot of the abbey stair just as the sun crests the horizon. The deep crimson light is a welcome sight, shining through shattered walls and bare leaved trees.

Having found their descent more difficult than anticipated, with Athos leaning on him more heavily by the moment, D’Artagnan pauses to tip his head back and bask in the feeling of sun upon his face. There is no warmth in its rays, but his imagination can supply the lack. He takes an audible breath of relief.

“What is it?” he asks Athos when he finds the man watching him.

Athos’ weary features pull together. “You, my friend.”

D’Artagnan braces himself, recalling his lapse on the abbey tower. Upon seeing Athos in danger, he had called out, alerting the Marquis to their presence and nearly damning them all.

“Your verve for life - for the smallest of things.”

“It is written all over my face,” D’Artagnan finishes glumly, resolving once more to better restrain his impulses.

“Yes,” Athos says softly, “and today I would have it no other way.”

Glancing sideways through strands of damp hair, D’Artagnan can see from the older man’s expression that the sentiment is genuine. Self-recrimination rapidly dissolving, he opens his mouth to speak, then reconsiders, replying instead with a contented nod.

Ahead, the Marquis lies broken on the stones - partially obscured by the cloak which had unfurled like bat wings during the fall. With gritted teeth, D’Artagnan determinedly takes a step closer, wishing to conceal his hesitation. Upon sensing a corresponding rigidity in Athos’ arm, D’Artagnan’s thoughts return to the abbey tower. The Gascon would never forget that look of quiet resolve on his mentor’s face - how the tip of the knife against his own chest had not wavered... However, reliving that moment would give him no peace, and for now he can take comfort in the simple knowledge that the grip on his arm is real.

Aramis glances up from his crouch beside the body, his gaze finding D’Artagnan. Perhaps, like the Gascon, the marksman is recalling the body in that ruined house - how its eyes had sprung open...

“This belongs to you, I think.” Rising stiffly, Aramis proffers Athos’ sword.

“It is tempting to let it lie here,” Athos says, the corners of his lips curving down in bitter contemplation. “I cannot but feel that some taint will remain.”

“You are not usually one for superstition,” Aramis mocks lightly.

The night’s events had gone far beyond superstition. As Aramis searches his friend’s stormy expression, D’Artagnan feels a little apart from the exchange - providing a supporting shoulder as the bonds of an older friendship are reaffirmed.

“It will take time to reconcile,” Aramis continues, “and it pains me that we could not prevent it coming to this end.” The marksman waves a hand in explanation. “We had a chance - and we failed.”

“Tell me,” Athos requests, “if it does not pain you to do so.”

D’Artagnan feels a twinge in his neck, where the Marquis had touched him with ice cold fingers - had sliced slowly into his flesh.

Recognising his friend’s sudden parlour, Aramis defers to the younger man’s decision. “D’Artagnan?”

“Of course,” the Gascon responds at once, though continues to balk at the recollection. There is something still more wretched in having others, even his closest friends, know how easily they had been rendered defenceless. His heart suddenly racing with an unfounded fear, D’Artagnan peers through the bare trees, hoping to catch sight of Porthos’ familiar cloak amid the branches.

“He’ll find her,” Aramis assures him with a comforting hand on the shoulder. “He’ll return. Let’s rest here while we wait."

D’Artagnan licks dry lips, forcing his breathing to slow, and gives the marksman a grateful nod.

Before they recount their tale, they settle on the rock wall to wait - backs pressed up against uncomfortable stone. Thirst is ever-present, but more bearable now that an end is in sight. Aramis fusses, propping up Athos’ leg, and checking D'Artagnan's neck - lamenting once again at their lack of supplies.

“The trail took us through the marsh…” As Aramis begins to speak, words alone do not recall the fearful trepidation with which he and D’Artagnan had entered the shack - the fluttering sounds- and the stench.

For the most part, Athos listens to their story in stony silence. However, as Aramis describes the body on the kitchen floor - how the old man, axe in hand, appeared to have cleaved his own leg in some bout of madness - the swordsman pales and turns aside.

D’Artagnan himself stiffens at the remembrance of the pale eyes springing open, the light failing, and that terrible groping fear in the dark.

“And then we pursued the creature,” Aramis continues, his words pushing them steadily onwards. “Out of the town, up a steep rise.”

D’Artagnan holds his breath.

“And I took the chance.” Aramis hesitates, hand running through his hair in frustrated recollection. “It was foolhardy. If I had waited for a better opportunity...”

“Go on,” Athos prompts.

“The landscape fell away-” D’Artagnan adds, sensing it to be his turn to speak. “As though the trees had never been there at all. Suddenly we fought on the side of a precipice, and Aramis was no longer in sight.”

Athos looks sharply to the Marksman.

“D’Artagnan did not let me fall,” Aramis says with fervour. He holds out his bandaged hands to Athos, the cloth soaked through with blood. “Through it all - he held on.”

D’Artagnan ducks his head. Aramis makes it sound heroic - like any other musketeer would not have done the same.

“I do not doubt it,” Athos says with grim acknowledgement, watching Aramis for what had been left unsaid. The fear. The pain. “And the Marquis?”

D’Artagnan finds himself unconsciously rubbing his neck, again plagued by the sensation of ghostly fingers.

“He offered us a choice,” Aramis says darkly.

Athos’ face closed over, concealing whatever emotion the words inspired. “What choice?”

“Call out or he’d cut my throat.” The words spill bluntly from D’Artagnan’s lips. He wants them out - wants to purge the memory from his mind.

“Needless to say,” Aramis admits, “we acquiesced to his demand.”

Athos’ gaze traces the wound on D’Artagnan’s neck and he frowns, clearly questioning the Marquis' motivations as the two Musketeers had before him. “We heard you. We did not know at the time whether the calls were genuine.”

“Porthos came out of the dark,” D’Artagnan says, his breathing slowing. “Just as I was slipping -”

“I did not think I had ever been so happy to see him,” Aramis adds, lips twisting into a grim smile.

“He conquered his own fears just in time to haul us to safe ground,” D’Artagnan finishes. Their tale complete, he looks to Athos - not knowing whether he he will find praise or censure, but wishing for some acknowledgement from the older man.

Head tipped back against the stone wall, Athos’ eyes have slipped closed. Jaw slack, his fingers curl lightly where they rest on his lap.

D’Artagnan offers Aramis a half smile.

Dappled light through the trees, along with the chirp of birds waking with the dawn, fills the contented silence. D’Artagnan’s his own eyelids grow heavy, his breath becoming shallow and regular.

However, before he has the opportunity to follow his mentor in sleep, a voice echoes from outside the convent walls. “I have her!”

Striding towards them is Porthos, the little girl Luce mounted on his broad shoulders. He is grinning - an expression D'Artagnan has sorely missed.

D’Artagnan shakes himself, reaching across a steadying hand to Athos who had jerked awake in alarm at the sound.

“I think we caught them napping,” Porthos winks at Luce conspiratorially. Tear tracks stripe Luce's face, but her eyes are dry as Porthos lowers her down.

“Luce.” Aramis greets the child first with a relieved smile. He throws Porthos a meaningful look, chin tilting towards the body.

“Aramis!” Luce cries. “Where is your hat?”

Porthos takes the opportunity to discreetly unclasp his cloak and sweep it in an arc to fully obscure the Marquis' body.

“Sadly lost,” Aramis replies, crouching down stiffly to enfold the child in a comforting embrace.

At her look of continuing concern, Aramis pats the top of her head. “But you don't need a hat to be a musketeer." Aramis winks up at D'Artagnan, and the youngest musketeer salutes the sentiment.

"I hid very well," she tells Athos next, reaching up her arms expectantly.

"You certainly did," the swordsman responds, though seems to hold himself back from her approach.

D'Artagnan throws a quizzical look sideways, before taking it upon himself to lift the girl up to sit beside them upon the wall. His muscles strain at the effort, but he is rewarded by her face lighting up.

Luce holds out her hand, D’Artagnan’s wooden carving resting upon her palm. "I kept her safe," she tells him.

D’Artagnan looks down fondly at the carving, the night seeming so long that he barely remembered crafting the small figurine. "Her name is Constance," he tells Luce, folding her small fingers over the wood. "She's yours now."

Luce looks up, surprised by D'Artagnan's gift. She reaches out to show Athos.

"Athos..." D'Artagnan prompts, thinking it best to indulge the child until they had the opportunity to return her to her family.

"A moment alone?" his friend requests, a look of grim determination darkening his features.

"Of course," D'Artagnan agrees, feeling his brow crease in concern. Before leaving, he shrugs out of his own cloak, wrapping it around the child so that she is comfortably ensconced. The thick material is a little damp, but warm enough inside.

D’Artagnan rejoins Porthos and Aramis, nudging the larger man's uninjured arm in welcome.

Gesturing with his chin to where Athos spoke solemnly with Luce, Porthos asks, "What's that about?" Arms crossed, he shifts uncomfortably when Athos gestures for the child to look towards the Marquis’ body.

“I suppose she should know how it ended,” D’Artagnan murmurs, “that the creature will no longer trouble her village.”

“That’s not all,” Porthos says, watching D’Artagnan carefully. “What happened up there?”

The Gascon runs his tongue over dry lips, feigning an ignorance that neither of his friends will find convincing.

"Perhaps we will know in time?" Aramis suggests.

D'Artagnan shrugs glumly, the likelihood of Athos divulging his concerns being something none of them could predict.

Porthos sighs, letting the subject drop. “If we stay here any longer, I'll die of thirst. The body - do we leave it here to rot?"

"Can we trust that it has been destroyed?" Athos comes up behind D'Artagnan with a silent step that makes the Gascon jump.

"Luce?" Porthos asks.

"Asleep," Athos says with a half smile. "I have to admit to a little jealousy on that front."

"Talked her to sleep, did you?" Porthos prompts.

Athos gives him a quelling glare. "No child should have witnessed the things Luce has seen - and of all burdens she did not deserve to endure mine."

At Aramis' expectant look, Athos deflects. "Later. Let us first decide on our course."

Aramis bends stiffly and peels back the corner of Porthos' cloak, revealing the Marquis’ body once more. It seems pale and inoffensive in the daylight, but nonetheless D’Artagnan feels his brothers draw back as one.

“We have no reason to suspect further deception," Aramis says. "There's no breath. No heartbeat."

The sun is rising," D'Artagnan adds.

"The mists are in retreat." Porthos nods towards the trees. “That’s gotta be a good sign.”

"In any case, I suppose we have little choice," Athos admits with reluctance. "We do not have the strength remaining between us to bear such a burden. And we would be foolhardy to try."

"What is it that you fear?" Aramis asks, letting the corner of the cloak fall back over the Marquis' features.

Athos raises his eyes skyward and lets out a long breath. "Waking."

* * *

Comfortable at last, D’Artagnan shifts his boot a little closer to the fire and tips his chin towards Athos. "You did not truly think the creature's death another illusion?"

The late afternoon sun slants down through grimy tavern windows as the four revel in the warmth of their corner seat. D’Artagnan’s leathers have began to dry, becoming stiff with their proximity to the tavern fire. Apparently the only establishment in these parts with food, drink and gossip, the place is bustling. The news of the demise of the creature that had wreaked such destruction over the last weeks had reached the villagers, and they had come together in celebration.

Athos, leg propped securely on a stool, opens half-closed eyes in response to D’Artagnan’s question. “Even now, the shadow of the place remains.” The swordsman takes a long breath, pausing to drain his glass, then pierces D’Artagnan with an accusing glare. “Do you so easily feel free of it?”

D’Artagnan frowns, not taking the tone to heart, but saddened by the growing melancholia he can detect in his friend’s tone.

"Take care," Aramis warns. "Too much food and drink on an empty stomach will do more harm than good.”

“We’ll need to drink more than this to wipe away the memory of this night,” Porthos says, downing his third ale. To D’Artagnan’s incredulity, the man remains unaffected - his hand steady. “Though my coin purse is feelin’ a little light.”

Despite his own advice, Aramis too had wolfed down the meal provided by the friendly innkeeper’s wife, barely allowing it to touch the sides.

D’Artagnan sank back into the chair, eyes closed in brief, sleepy contentment at the feeling of a full belly. His various aches and pains, constant companions since their first encounter with the Marquis, had become dull with the alcohol, and he knew sleep was within his reach.

Their trek back to the road had been laborious. Athos had leant on D'Artagnan, attempting to avoid putting pressure on the fresh claw marks along the Gascon’s arms, but without much success. Porthos had taken Luce on his shoulders once more, and Aramis, still suffering from bouts of dizziness and a faint ringing in his ears, led the way. Luck had triumphed, and instead of circling back to that accursed abbey, their course revealed the road.

With drowsy contentment, D’Artagnan now watches Luce reunited with her family. The little girl is speaking animatedly to her younger brother, Paul, and seeing the youngest musketeer watching, she waves, proud to acknowledge her new friends.

D’Artagnan had wondered how they would locate Luce’s family, but as luck would have it, the moment the five of them had staggered into the tavern courtyard, the innkeeper had recognised the child. Suspicious looks had given way to activity when the man understood that they had destroyed the creature that had plagued their village for long weeks. Sending a boy to summon Luce’s family, settling them inside with drink to quench their torturous thirsts, and preparing two rooms upstairs for their use.

Now, Luce’s father places his empty tankard on the nearby table and pushes back his chair.

"I'm in your debt," he says humbly, approaching the musketeers with hat in hand, "for bringing our little Luce home."

"No debt, Monsieur," Athos says sincerely, shifting as if to stand. "Your daughter showed great courage."

Luce’s father motions for Athos and D’Artagnan, who are seated awkwardly against the wall, to remain seated. "We knew something was out there,” he tells them. “Some wild beast. We lost seven good townspeople to it - and then - when Luce disappeared…” The man pales.

"She’s safe now,” Porthos says, clapping a hand on his back.

Luce’s father holds out a coin purse. “It’s not much, but will you accept..?”

Four heads shake.

Aramis presses the man’s hands away. “No recompense necessary. Seeing Luce reunited with her family is our reward.”

“A round of drinks, at the very least?”

Porthos grins. D'Artagnan can see from the man’s clothes that he could I'll afford the generosity, but a drink would ease the man’s sense of honour, and further quench their thirst.

“And I will spread praise for the King’s musketeers,” the man says in farewell, waving to the tavern owner to indicate his order.

Reluctantly resuming his seat, Aramis drums his fingers on the table top. “And after this round, will you allow me to do my duty?”

D’Artagnan smiles, amused by the conflict between the marksman’s desire to ensure their well being and Athos and Porthos’ lackadaisical neglect. D'Artagnan himself is inclined to the later - feeling pleasantly heavy, with the alcohol having taken the edge off his remaining uneasiness, and the thick inn door closing out the cold.

“Not yet,” Athos shakes his head.

“A few more drinks,” Porthos agrees.

Aramis thumps his fist on the table, wincing. “You are both fools,” he says, gaze travelling worriedly from Athos’ knee to Porthos’ bandaged arm, “and should your neglect result in infection, you will deserve it.”

“A few moments will make no difference,” Athos assures him leisurely.

Aramis lets out a long, sceptical breath, then his gaze becomes calculating. “If you are determined to ignore your physical hurts, you will at least allow us to ease your mind.”

Athos’ eyes fix on the marksman’s face, from drowsy to dangerous in a moment. The claw marks on his jaw, like those on D’Artagnan’s forearms, stand out darkly in the candlelight.

“You promised you’d tell us what happened up there,” Porthos pressed, and nods up to the innkeeper as the man places fresh tankards on the table.

“I made no such promise,” Athos protests, jaw set. His gaze shifts accusingly to D’Artagnan, but the Gascon shakes his head slightly, indicating he has said nothing of what he had seen.

Something softens in the older man, and he leans back in his chair.

“Set our minds at rest,” Aramis begs softly, reaching out to grasp his friend’s forearm, “If not for your own sake, then for ours.”

Athos smiles bitterly. Aramis always knew how to appeal to their better natures.

Athos drains his tankard before eyeing Luce’s family. “Perhaps we should continue this upstairs.”

Aramis nods his eager assent, drawing back his chair at once. Taking the time to drain his own glass, Porthos follows, reaching an arm out to draw Athos from the bench.

D’Artagnan finds himself a little light headed, his belly full and the alcohol rushing to his head as he stands.

“Up the stairs and to the left.” The innkeeper nods as they pass. “You’ll find the supplies you requested in the smaller room. Enjoy your rest - looks like you’ve earned it.”

“We shall,” Aramis returns with sincerity. “Your hospitality is appreciated.”

* * *

Athos sags against the corridor wall as Aramis fiddles with the key to the first room, his teeth set on edge by the shriek of the old lock.

Breathless and grateful for Porthos’ steady grip, he lets the larger man draw him into the warm chamber, barely acknowledging its plain but comfortable arrangement and the fire already set in the grate. The bed is their destination, and it takes Athos’ remaining determination to reach it.

“A bit higher,” Porthos encourages.

Athos closes his eyes against the discomfort of the other man manoeuvring his leg to rest upon the blankets. The solid wood of the headboard proves to be a comfort against his back, and he relaxes against it, determined to regain his breath.

Through slitted eyes, he contemplates his brothers moving quietly about the room, their actions practiced and efficient. In the firelight, the three familiar figures give him comfort - weary and sore - but blessedly alive.

While Aramis had gathered the medical supplies and transferred them to a stocky table by the bed, D’Artagnan had moved to the window and now stood peering down into the tavern courtyard. Mist swirls beyond the frame, and feeling a sudden chill, Athos’ fingers unconsciously twitch atop the coverlet.

As though similarly affected, D’Artagnan visibly shivers and draws the shutters closed with a bang, putting the sturdy wood between them and the growing dark. The Gascon offers Athos a knowing grimace as he shrugs off his jacket and sinks down into a nearby chair. A slight twitch of his muscles indicates the desire to unlace his boots, but it appears that even that small action is beyond him.

"Athos first?" Aramis asks, "unless someone is concealing an injury."

"Just my arm," Porthos confirms, rolling his shoulder as though testing its usefulness. "And a few scratches and bumps."

D'Artagnan nods wearily. "Nothing you don't know about." The boy flexes the fingers of his right hand and winces in discomfort. It will be some time before a sword or pistol can sit comfortably there.

Aramis nods, running a hand through his hair as he turns to scrutinise Athos’ pallor. "Perhaps we'll give your knee a moment to rest. The stairs were a trial?"

Athos nods, shifting a little to find a more comfortable angle for his knee.

The light from the flickering lamp is low. Aramis shifts it a little nearer with one hand, wringing out a cloth with the other. “Let’s start with these.”

But as the marksman moves to gently grasp Athos’ jaw to clean the claw marks, Athos flinches back, a spike of panic stealing his composure.

"Athos?" Aramis draws back slowly, carefully loosening his hold on the older man’s shoulder.

Gaze fixed to the candle flame, Athos holds deathly still - the sudden, shrinking horror stalling any explanation. Heart pounding, he can feel his brother’s concern like a heavy ache - can sense Porthos’ and D’Artagnan’s silent perturbation. Self-recrimination rising, he works at the paralysis like a stubborn knot, forcing through it before succeeding in huffing a breath out through his nose. Clenching his fists in the coverlet, he looks up to find Aramis’ gaze, holding it even as all his senses scream at him to flee. "The creature had your face.”

Aramis recoils a little, understanding dawning, and quickly loosens his hold as Athos continues.

“Your face and your voice. He claimed that all was lost - that D’Artagnan…” Athos sucks in a slow breath. The words are coming easier now - though the recollection of the Marquis’ false claims is somehow no less disquieting in retrospect. “Regardless, I prompted him with our sign - and he failed the test.”

Sitting straight-backed and tense on his chair, D'Artagnan raises a hand to his neck, scrubbing blindly as if seeking to relieve an itch. It is not the first time, and the movement is beginning to make Athos’ own skin crawl.

"Would you prefer if-" Aramis moves to withdraw, but Athos reaches up and traps the other man’s hand on his shoulder. He disregards the cold trickle from the washcloth onto his leathers, and simply grips Aramis’ wrist. The creature will not take this from him.  
Where before the cosy room offered comfort, safety, it now seemed to be closing in around them. Attempting to speak as if he does see the shadow of the creature in Aramis’ features, he shakes his head. "No. Only... have patience with me."

He finds understanding in Aramis’ expression, and recalls when the situation had been reversed - when the Marquis had deceived them with Athos' face. The marksman squeezes Athos’ shoulder in understanding. "Tell me if you need me to stop."

"Where was Luce through all this?" Porthos asks, leaning back in his chair to indicate he is content to wait for an answer.

"I bid her run and hide," Athos admits after a time. “I was plagued by visions - I knew not what I did.”

“Visions?” The question appears to stick in D’Artagnan’s throat.

Athos recognises his turmoil - yearning to understand and offer comfort, while simultaneously wishing to shut eyes and ears and never again speak of it.

He turns aside as Aramis goes to work on unlacing his boot, clenching his teeth and grasping the edge of the headboard with white knuckles. “Three visions," he grits out. "At first I mistakenly believed myself asleep. The house at Pinon visits my dreams often enough, but this time Thomas’ portrait was somehow wrong - wolf-like…”

As though the smoke from the fire is suddenly stifling, Porthos shifts, pacing from his place by the blaze to lean upon the desk. Aramis’ hand stills, while D’Artagnan grips the arms of his chair.

All too aware of his friends’ discomfort, Athos hesitates, face closing over in sudden determination to bear his own trials.

“Let us help you bear the burden,” the marksman says after a long pause, looking to Porthos and D’Artagnan for support. “What troubles one of us concerns us all.”

D’Artagnan looks up in agreement, shame briefly crossing his features as he reaches for his waterskin.

Aramis and Porthos are firm believers that a burden shared is a burden eased. If their recent encounter with Anne had taught him anything, it was the truth in that - though old habits died hard. He nods in gratitude, throat tightening in anticipation.

“What came next?” Porthos’ face is screwed up in bitter contemplation, though he will not leave his friend to suffer in silence.

“The night off Rue de l'Echelle.” Athos prevents emotion from colouring his words, anticipating his friends’ reaction.

Porthos swears while Aramis stills, letting the bandage he had been winding fall slack.

“What happened?” D’Artagnan asks.

“Men set upon revenge for a hanging,” Aramis says cautiously, watching Athos.

Unfamiliar with their shared trials, D'Artagnan’s brow creases as he attempts to reconcile his alienation. “You do not need to tell me,” he offers, clearly yearning to understand, but also wishing to spare his mentor further grief.

“I was disgracefully drunk - more so than usual -” Athos admits.

"Those men were the disgrace," Porthos cut in.

"They believed an injustice to have taken place," Athos says diplomatically, the words veiling his racing heartbeat and creeping nausea.

It is an old argument between them, and Athos finds his hand drifting unconsciously to the leg that had been injured that night years before.

“No,” Porthos shook his head. “They knew justice had been done, but wanted to take out their -”

“Regardless,” Athos cuts in, resolved that D’Artagnan not know the worst of it - and praying the boy be spared any such encounter of his own, “When I woke from the vision, the knife was in my hand, and Luce close by...”

Porthos jerks, eyes moving down as if he could see the child in the tavern below.

Athos turns bloodshot eyes on him. “After that I could not trust myself - I told her to run.”

“The right choice, I think,” Aramis says reassuringly.

“And the third?” D'Artagnan asks, clearly fearful but wishing the tale over with.

“Rougemont.”

D’Artagnan flinches at the name, tongue unconsciously tracing his bottom lip as though he can taste the ghostly tang of blood in his mouth. After the debacle with Vadim, taking down Rougemont’s operation had been the next where the boy had been sorely tested. Athos felt pride at D’Artagnan’s endurance, but knew from their proximity on recent missions that the Gascon still woke in a cold sweat on occasion, having bitten through his lip in a dream attempt not to impart information.

“You thought you were back there?” D’Artagnan asked now, the break in his voice betraying his calm.

Aramis and Porthos’ eyes are dark. They recalled rescuing their friends from that place - having never expected to find them alive.

“Yes,” Athos says. “However, all was not right. The Marquis was there. He convinced me -”

“What?” Porthos prompts.

“That if I survived the encounter I would live out my days in Hôpital de la Pitié*.”

“A place for mad men,” Aramis explains for D’Artagnan’s benefit. “Poor souls. But it’s little wonder you believed this was a dream, my friend.”

Athos nods, spent, and leans back against the headboard.

Porthos endures Aramis’ ministrations with less stoicism than Athos, though the practiced complaints and insults are as much a tradition between them as any true expression of discontent.

“Done?” Porthos asks as Aramis ties off the fresh bandage.

The marksman steps back and nods, now rather pale himself. It has been many hours since Porthos had received the gunshot wound, and fear of infection always made Aramis particularly vigilant.

“Lucky,” Porthos grunts. “I was considering shootin’ someone else to distract you.”

“Don’t you dare,” Aramis threatens, but there is no sting in the words, and he leans heavily on the armrest as he speaks.

“Now you,” Porthos declares, rising and pushing his friend towards the vacated chair.

Aramis resists. “D’Artagnan-”

“Is content to wait his turn,” the Gascon puts in, rising stiffly to his feet to change the water. 

“It’s only a little dizziness,” Aramis protests. “It will pass.”

Porthos’ steady grip prevents Aramis from rising, but the marksman points to D’Artagnan’s bandaged palm. “That hand-”

“Aramis,” Athos warns, and the marksman subsides, feeling his three friends ranged against him.

Seeing Aramis begin to reluctantly comply with Porthos’ instructions, Athos rests his heavy eyes, a half-amused smile on his lips.

* * *

A chill breeze across his sweat-dampened forehead draws D’Artagnan from slumber. He knows he has been dreaming - some disconcerting memory still pulling at his consciousness - but squints through narrowed eyelids to find the source of the cold. At the end of the chamber, the window is open, and the silhouette of Athos clear against the grey sky beyond.

Groaning slightly, he drags himself upright, shivering at the sight of the cooling embers in the once blazing fireplace.

“Athos?”

His friend does not respond, expression fixed into bitter contemplation, and D’Artagnan hesitates, finding the eerie stillness unsettling. But the cold boards beneath his feet, combined with the realisation that Athos is only in his shirtsleeves, decides his course.

He approaches and places a tentative hand on Athos’ stiff shoulder, then reaches beyond and pulls the shutters closed, hoping the sound will not wake Aramis and Porthos next door.

“D’Artagnan?” Athos asks, expression now unreadable in the darkness.

“I’m here,” he says, heart aching to see his friend in this quiet distress but unsure how to lend comfort.

Athos pulls the younger man to him with one arm, as he had on the tower, and D’Artagnan relaxes into the hold, feeling the swordsman’s thunderous heartbeat between their bodies.

“The fear will pass,” D’Artagnan begins, the words as much a question as a statement. “Together we’ve endured much - and always come through it.” The truth of the words lends him surety, and he grips Athos’ arm. “This will be no different.”

D'Artagnan thinks he feels his friend smiling in the dark, though he cannot be sure.

“Back to bed?” Athos suggests, and they turn away from the window together. 

* * *

A soft tapping on the door draws D’Artagnan from slumber for the second time.

Moonlight shards through the break in the shutters, softly lighting the side of Athos’ face as he sleeps. Porthos’ sword gleams from where it leans against the wall by his bed, but Aramis’ chair is empty. D’Artagnan does not know how much time has passed since he last woke.

The tapping on the door comes again, more insistent. D’Artagnan hesitates, unwilling to leave the comfort of his bed.

One more knock and he drags off the coverlet to climb to his feet. Stiff and sore, with a dry mouth, he pads across the cold floorboards and gently draws open the heavy door.

Aramis’ familiar silhouette is standing in the doorway, backlit by moonlight from a window at the end of the hall. From his slouched stance, D’Artagnan can see that his friend is heavily fatigued.

“It was unlatched,” D’Artagnan says, a little more tersely than necessary, as he stands aside to let the marksman pass into the room.

“There is something I hoped we might discuss.” Aramis gestures to the corridor. “Could we -”

D’Artagnan hesitates, sure that his friend wishes discuss his guilt over what had transpired in the abbey. The Gascon is bone weary, and hesitates, sagging against the lintel.

“Please, my friend.”

It is always difficult to deny Aramis.

Swiping a hand over his tired eyes, D’Artagnan glances back to ensure Athos is sleeping, then softly pulls the door to.

When he turns, he starts to find Aramis standing closer than before. The marksman is smiling, but not his familiar roguish smile.

“Aramis -”

Aramis raises a finger to his lips for silence, moonlight glinting off his sharp teeth.

\--  
_The end._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll leave the reader to interpret the ending - read it how you will :p
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this last installment ^_^

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Nuit du Loup FanArt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7954042) by [The_Ghoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Ghoul/pseuds/The_Ghoul)




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